Mr and Mrs Darcy 02 Suspense & Sensibility (11 page)

As they moved through the dining room, Kitty, in a whisper, asked Elizabeth
her opinion of the place settings.

"Rather too pretentious for my own taste," she whispered back.

"I thought so, too."

Noting a small alcove on one end of the dining room, Elizabeth enquired
as to its purpose.

"The dining room used to be a bedchamber in the original house, and
a servant slept in that alcove," the housekeeper
replied. "When
the chamber was converted into the dining room, a table was put in the center
of the alcove. At one time, breakfast was set out there instead of on the
sideboard during large parties. But the present Mrs. Dashwood prefers the
sideboard, so the nook generally goes unused now, except as a place to set
flowers to help ornament the dining room."

They moved on to other rooms, where they learned that the settle had
been a wedding gift to Sir Stephen and Lady Dash-wood in the sixteenth century,
that the tapestries in the blue bedchamber had come with another long-ago
bride, and that the pianoforte had last been played regularly by Harry's aunt
Marianne Dashwood, now Mrs. Brandon, when she lived in the house as a girl. The
genealogy lessons continued in the long gallery, where generations of Dashwoods
lined the walls.

"That's Sir Stephen, there," said the housekeeper, gesturing
toward a full-length portrait of a man in a ruff collar, "the last knight
in the family. His lady wife is beside him. They say the two of them were inseparable.
Over there is Mr. Albert Dashwood, my first master at Norland. A fine-looking
man in his youth, though I don't remember him that way, as he was old when I
came here. At least, he seemed old to me as a girl. Perhaps Mr. Dashwood
remembers him?"

Harry shook his head. "I couldn't have been more than five when he
died."

"Four, I believe, sir. But you certainly made an impression on him
when you visited with your parents." She smiled in recollection. "You
near about talked his ears off with your little voice, telling him about your
latest discoveries and using only half the right words. That's when he decided
to entail the estate to you."

"Instead of leaving it to his own children?" Elizabeth asked.
The anxiety such an arrangement had caused her own family through the years
left her perpetually puzzled by the logic of men who settled their affairs so
unjustly.

"He never married," the housekeeper said. "His nephew,
Henry Dashwood - grandfather of young Mr. Dashwood here - lived with Albert in
his later days. By then Henry's son, John, was grown. Henry lived here with his
second wife and their daughters, Elinor, Marianne, and Margaret. That was a
happy time. The girls adored their uncle Albert, and I do believe he lived
longer for the pleasure of their companionship."

"Where are they now?" Kitty asked.

"Henry died just one year after Albert. According to the terms of Albert's
will, Henry could not divide Norland among multiple heirs. Upon Henry's death,
therefore, everything went entirely to John, so that the estate could
eventually pass whole to his son, Harry. When Mr. and Mrs. John Dashwood took
possession of the house, Mrs. Henry Dashwood and the girls moved to a cottage
in Devonshire owned by a cousin of hers."

"Sir John Middleton," Harry said. "You have met him."

It did not surprise Elizabeth that the widowed Mrs. Henry Dashwood had
chosen to live near the genial Sir John rather than continue at Norland with
Fanny Dashwood as its new mistress. She somehow suspected that Fanny, having
just come into ownership of the great house, had not been a particularly
gracious hostess toward her predecessor.

"The girls are all grown now, correct?" Elizabeth asked.

"Yes, and comfortably settled with husbands of their own," the
housekeeper replied.

"I invited them all to Norland this week," said Harry. "But
I believe only my aunt Elinor and uncle Edward Ferrars will join us. Margaret
is in confinement, with Marianne and their mother attending her and the infant."

Another new baby. It seemed all the world had entered an uncommon state
of fecundity.

Kitty strolled farther along the gallery, studying various portraits in
their turn. She stopped before a full-length painting of a young, dark-haired
man with an almost tangible air of
self-possession. "Is this a likeness of your
father, Mr. Dash-wood? His resemblance to you is striking."

In that, Elizabeth concurred. The subject had been captured at about the
same age as Harry Dashwood and bore many of the same physical characteristics.
But for the clothing that clearly marked him as an inhabitant of the previous
century, he and Harry could pass for twins. His eyes, however, seemed to mock
the viewer with secret knowledge, and Elizabeth found his sardonic smile
unsettling.

"No, my father's portrait hangs over there. This is Sir Francis Dashwood,
probably our most notorious ancestor."

"What is he notorious for?" Kitty asked.

Darcy cleared his throat. "If Sir Francis had an estate in
Buckinghamshire, as you told me, how did his portrait come to be here?"

"Perhaps it arrived on the same coach as did the looking glass I
showed you." Harry shrugged. "I discovered the two items together in
the attic when I was last here, and thought it highly amusing that Sir Francis
and I looked so much alike. So I had the portrait brought down and hung. As for
why it may have been brought here, your conjecture is as good as my own. I understand
there are numerous paintings of Sir Francis at West Wycombe - perhaps his heirs
didn't think they needed quite so many remembrances of the fellow. If I remember
aright, the estate went to a half brother. Maybe the new owner wanted to clean
house and live down the old chap's reputation."

"What reputation?" Kitty asked again. "What did he do?"

"Where did you say your father's portrait is?" Darcy attempted
to usher them farther along the gallery.

Elizabeth resisted his shepherding and instead regarded her husband
closely. Had his color risen?

"Darcy, that marks the second time you have diverted attention from
Kitty's question. What, exactly, is Sir Francis notorious for?"

He
hesitated. "Ungentlemanlike conduct."

"A
great many men are guilty of that."

"Not to
this degree."

"Which
degree?"

"Suffice
it to say that he engaged in behavior unbecoming to himself and his associates."

The vexing
man spoke in circles. "What does history accuse him of?"

"Things
unfit for a lady's ears."

Darcy's
prevarication only fueled her curiosity, but his tone brooked no appeal. She
resolved to renew the subject later. Perhaps he would reveal more about the
mysterious Sir Francis Dash wood when they were alone.

She looked
to Mr. Dashwood. "Well, then. Let us see the portrait of your father."

John
Dashwood's likeness hung very nearly in the center of the gallery, flanked on
one side by a painting of Fanny in her youth and on the other by a pair of
portraits depicting young boys of about six and twelve. The children's
portraits reminded Elizabeth of several others she had seen in the house.

"Who
are the boys?" Kitty asked.

"Me.
Both of them." Mr. Dashwood looked sheepish. "My mother has a fixation
with having my likeness drawn. She insisted I sit for another last month. I
have not yet seen the final painting, though the artist seemed pleased as he
worked."

"Your
mother is clearly very fond of you." Elizabeth spoke in what she hoped was
a convincing tone, though in truth she suspected Fanny of being more interested
in the image of her son than in the person himself. Mrs. John Dashwood had
packed her boy off to boarding school the moment he was old enough to go,
apparently preferring still pictures of him to the boisterous company of a real
child. Though children of the gentry commonly attended public school, Harry's
parents, like Darcy's, could have afforded a private tutor if they had wanted
one.

Now that Harry had reached adulthood, his mother's behavior toward
Kitty, the chosen object of his affections, indicated that she still valued his
appearance - his advancement in society - more than his happiness. Fanny Dash
wood was at once indulgent and indifferent, showering her son with all the
accoutrements of his class without troubling herself to actually become
acquainted with him.

As they left the gallery and returned downstairs, Fanny Dash-wood's
carriage pulled up to the door. They met her in the foyer, where her
rain-soaked afternoon of travel and the news of Geor-giana's absence combined
to render her mood as black as the sky.

"Harry, I thought all our guests were arriving tomorrow," she
said through a frozen smile that did not reach her eyes. She reminded Elizabeth
of a ventriloquist, but Harry resisted being manipulated like a doll.

"Because Miss Bennet and the Darcys come as my special guests, I invited
them to arrive a day early."

She drew him aside. "But this evening was to be reserved for
family," she whispered harshly, continuing to display her forced smile for
the Darcys' benefit.

"Yes, it is." Harry removed her hand from his arm and stepped
away. Mrs. Dash wood glared after him as he addressed Kitty and the Darcys. "My
mother has just reminded me that my aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ferrars,
will be joining us for dinner with their daughter."

"Will we also have the pleasure of meeting Mr. and Mrs. Edward Ferrars
tonight?" Kitty asked.

"They are expected," Fanny Dashwood responded. The ice in her
voice made Kitty look to Elizabeth with trepidation.

"Dinner is at half past five." Without another word to her son
or anyone else, Mrs. Dashwood turned and rigidly climbed the stairs. Harry
offered Kitty his arm and suggested that a pot of tea might warm the damp reception
Norland had given them thus far.

Elizabeth
and Darcy stayed behind a moment as the younger couple walked away. "Mr.
Dashwood
does
refer to the weather?" she asked.

"I
believe so. One would use other words to describe the atmosphere indoors"

"And we
are to stay in Sussex for a full week." She released a sigh. "Happy
thought, indeed."

"The
weather might clear." A mighty thunderclap shook the house, and rain
pelted furiously against the windows. "Eventually."

"Let us
hope so." She took Darcy's arm and they followed their host. "For if
the air within the house remains this chilly, we might be forced to flee to
Brighton after all."

Elizabeth
chose her dinner attire carefully, though not, she guessed, with as much
nervous deliberation as her sister. She ultimately selected an olive-green
sarsenet gown with a short train and instructed her maid to dress her hair
simply in order to spend more time on Kitty's. As she finished her preparations
alone, Darcy entered.

"You
are already dressed," she noted. He wore his dark blue coat, a favorite of
hers.

He watched
her clasp her necklace, his gaze lingering on her neck long after her hands had
dropped to her sides. "I want only your company to complete my ensemble,"
he said.

"So
that I can deflect Mrs. Dashwood's aura of ill will? You would do better to don
the suit of armor in the library."

"Too
heavy. Though I do regret having left my fencing mask in London."

She
retrieved her slippers and sat near the fireplace to put them on. "One
wonders how Mr. Dashwood turned out as amiable as he has, with such a parent to
influence him."

"From
the sound of it, she did not maintain enough proximity
during his
youth to influence his disposition much at all." He took the slippers from
her hands and knelt to slide them on her feet himself.

"Fanny Dashwood does represent a good argument for the benefits of
boarding school." She studied her husband's face as he grasped her left
ankle and slid on one shoe. "Would you have wanted to attend one at such a
tender age, though?"

He stopped what he was doing to consider a moment. "No. I believe
the early education I received from my tutor and father superior to any I could
have obtained at a public school, and had I gone away at five or six, I would
hardly have known my mother at all before her death. Besides, the older boys at
school are often very cruel to the younger ones, and it is hard enough for a
lad twice that age to defend himself."

"How awful! I had no idea."

"You have no brothers." He slipped her other shoe over her
heel but remained kneeling at her feet. "I do not want to send our sons
away so early."

"Nor do I," she said.

His words tugged at her heart. They had not spoken much about children.
Though they had a tacit understanding that children were desired, she did not
know whether he wished for a large family or small, whether he harbored
partiality for boys or girls, how soon he hoped they would come. That he
already had given thought to how they should be raised occasioned only mild
surprise. Of course Darcy would afford something so important as the upbringing
of their children the same careful deliberation he gave all decisions.