Pride and Prescience (15 page)

“It appears he died quickly,” Darcy said.

“He was in our employ only a fortnight. His mother is a widow—he was supporting her. I shall have to write her with the awful news. Charles, we must send her something.”

“Of course.” Bingley dabbed at a scrape on his forehead.

Elizabeth approved of the gift; she would have done the same thing. But how had the horrible event occurred in the first place? “Can either of you tell us what happened?”

“I think we lost a wheel,” Bingley replied. “Since Jane and I were within the barouche, we couldn’t see exactly what occurred. The carriage must have hit a rock or something in the road because it suddenly shifted. The disturbance spooked the horses. They took off in a gallop—or as close to one as they could come with the carriage careening behind them. The next thing we knew, we were rolling over.”

“That’s when we hit the tree,” Jane finished. “And that’s the last I remember.”

Elizabeth again expressed gratitude that the couple had survived the ordeal relatively unscathed. Darcy echoed her sentiments, then left to speak with their driver.

“I noticed some wild-looking tracks maybe a hundred yards back, sir,” Elizabeth heard the servant say. “I didn’t see a wheel along the road, but I wasn’t looking for one, either.”

Her husband’s footsteps retreated and soon faded beneath the sounds of the driver finishing with the horses. Above, grey clouds thickened with the threat of more snow, and an icy gust of wind flapped the coach’s window curtain. Jane coughed and burrowed into the borrowed mantle. Bingley
suppressed a shiver, leading Elizabeth to insist he take her lap blanket, which he’d refused previously. They needed to get Jane and Bingley warm and comfortably resting.

Whatever was Darcy doing out there?

Darcy followed the erratic wheel tracks to their source, wanting to see for himself the object that had caused Bingley’s carriage to lose a wheel. They proved difficult to discern, despite their aberrant appearance compared to the straighter lines striping the path. Hoofprints and grooves from his own coach, and others that had preceded Bingley’s, obscured the marks, which had not been deep in the cold earth. The light dusting of snow covering the surrounding ground had melted on the highway under the weight of traffic.

Rocks and other obstacles in the road were no unusual thing for this thoroughfare or any other. Dips and ruts pocked the lane; stones, pinecones, and twigs studded it. But an observant driver should have spotted and tried to avoid an object large enough to damage the carriage. The failure of Bingley’s driver to do so earned him a share of responsibility for the accident—a large enough share that he, Darcy, hoped it would mitigate the guilt his new sister-in-law clearly felt over the man’s death. So, though aware of the necessity of haste in returning to Netherfield, he’d stolen these few minutes to seek proof of the driver’s own carelessness before additional travel on the road obliterated the evidence altogether. The peace of mind it afforded his friends would advance their recovery as much as any surgeon’s visit.

He reached the point where the crooked grooves gave way to straight. No obvious instrument of destruction presented itself. A few larger stones littered the path, but none substantial enough to wrench a properly secured wheel from its axle.

He shook his head in disgust. Bingley’s coachman must
have practiced sloppy maintenance in addition to inattentive driving. The couple’s practice of hiring help based on need rather than competence had nearly cost them their own lives.

The wheel he found several yards away, having flown from the force of its removal. He left the heavy part where it had landed and returned to his own coach with long, quick strides. He’d seen enough.

A light snow had started to fall by the time the party returned to Netherfield. A coach with an unfamiliar crest stood in front of the house, but Elizabeth barely spared it a glance in her haste to call assistance for Jane and Bingley. She entered the hall to find Mr. Parrish descending the staircase.

“Mrs. Darcy! I thought you were all gone to Longbourn?”

“There has been an accident—Mr. Bingley’s carriage overturned.”

He took the remaining steps two at a time. “I hope he and Jane weren’t injured?”

“Not seriously. At least, I don’t believe so. But they need help coming in the house. If you could find a footman—”

“Only lead the way, and I’ll aid them myself. We should send for a surgeon. Do you have one in the neighborhood?”

“An apothecary. Mr. Jones.”

“You,” he addressed the parlor maid who had suddenly materialized at Elizabeth’s announcement of the accident. “See that Mr. Jones is summoned immediately.”

Parrish accompanied Elizabeth outside. The snow was falling faster now, great, heavy flakes that stuck where they landed despite the wind. A blanket of white already covered the drive and steps.

Darcy and his driver had helped the couple out of the coach. Jane leaned heavily on Darcy’s arm, Bingley on the servant’s. Darcy’s face bore an annoyed expression that
Elizabeth attributed to the snowflakes pelting him.

Parrish loped down the great stone steps. “Forgive my manners, Mrs. Bingley, if I violate propriety. But I cannot stand on ceremony when I see a lady in need. Will you allow me to carry you into the house to save you further exertion?” He looked to Bingley. “With your husband’s permission, of course?”

“Please—if Jane does not mind. Get her out of this weather. I wish I could carry her myself.”

Parrish regarded Jane expectantly. She nodded her assent. He lifted her easily, her slight frame scarcely encumbering his strong arms. As if bearing no more than a doll, he whisked her up the steps and into the hall.

By this time, Mrs. Hurst awaited them. Behind her, doing their best to appear unobtrusive, several other servants had congregated in the corner.

“What is all the commotion?” Louisa demanded. Upon sight of Jane, she looked beyond the door. “What has happened? Where is my brother?”

“They suffered a carriage accident,” Parrish said as Bingley straggled in. Darcy, his gaze darting about the hall as if seeking something, braced him with a hand at his elbow.

“Gracious! Charles, are you all right?” She darted toward Bingley, brushing against Parrish hard enough to displace his footing. He maintained both his balance and a firm grip on Jane.

Mrs. Hurst’s behavior made Elizabeth all the more grateful for Parrish’s genuine solicitude toward her sister. Even as he stood waiting for Louisa to complete her effusions over Bingley, his face betrayed no sign of impatience or physical strain at the continued burden of supporting Jane. Clearly, she was in good hands, not to mention strong arms.

Elizabeth looked round for Mr. Hurst, hoping he might call off his wife so Jane and Bingley could proceed to their chamber and get on with the business of recovering. That gentleman, however, remained absent. Apparently, news of
the accident—by now in general circulation throughout the house, judging from the number of servants who had suddenly found chores urgently requiring their presence in the entry hall—had proven unable to rouse his interest, or at least his person, from whatever critical occupation presently engaged him.

A glance upward, however, revealed a face. Caroline Parrish stood on the balcony two stories above. Her countenance, though difficult to read at this distance in the grey light slanting though the windows, displayed agitation. She wrung her hands, working her wedding ring up and down her finger, as she observed the scene below. She yet wore nightclothes, though they had changed from the plain white shift of the night before to a lacy gown that fluttered in the wind sneaking through the open front door. The updraft also caught her unbound dark hair, tousling it about her shoulders.

“I heard the carriage draw up at least ten minutes ago,” barked a bellicose male voice from the drawing room. “How long am I to be kept waiting?”

With a start, Elizabeth recalled the strange coach outside. She searched her memory until she recognized the tones. They belonged to Mr. Lawrence Kendall, Juliet’s father.

“As I said, sir, Mr. Bingley will receive you at his first opportunity,” the housekeeper replied.

Bingley, who’d been about to ascend the stairs, paused as he listened to the exchange. His fingers tightened around the newel post. He suddenly looked even more exhausted than before.

Parrish stared at the drawing room door, looking for all the world like he’d just as soon avoid Kendall himself. Recalling Juliet’s resentment, Elizabeth was unsurprised that Parrish would wish to dodge the man who might have become his father-in-law. He carried Jane toward the steps. “Let’s get you upstairs.”

“Please wait a moment,” Jane said, her gaze on Bingley.

Kendall’s voice again issued from the drawing room. “You
told me he was not expected home until after dinner. Is he deliberately avoiding me?”

“He’s back early, and I’ve been in here attending you the whole while. I’ll inform him directly that you are come.”

“Do that.”

Mrs. Nicholls emerged looking like she’d just been released from Newgate.

“Nicholls, is that Mr. Kendall?” Bingley asked.

“Wishes to see you on a business matter, sir.” The housekeeper spoke slowly as she took in the crowded hall, her master’s disheveled appearance, her mistress aloft in Parrish’s arms. A look of reprimand dispersed the lower servants. “I told him you was gone for the day, but he insisted on waiting.”

Bingley released a deep sigh. “Show him to the library. Then devote your attention to Mrs. Bingley’s comfort.”

Darcy motioned for him to continue up the steps. “You need not subject yourself to his tiresome claims right now. I will greet him on your behalf and advise him to postpone his visit until a more favorable time. Or better still—to conduct all further business through your solicitors.”

Bingley shook his head and embarked on a slow shuffle across the hall. He favored his right leg. “Thank you, but you know nothing short of an audience with me will appease him. I’d best conclude the unpleasantness as quickly as possible.” He stopped. “I would not object to your company, however.”

“Of course.”

“Charles?” Anxiety clouded Jane’s features. “Please—will you interrupt your interview when Mr. Jones arrives so he can examine you?”

“As soon as he has attended you, my dear.”

The response seemed to appease her. Parrish mounted the staircase, with Elizabeth close behind. Her gaze lifted once more to the balcony.

Caroline was gone.

“Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgment than on his own.”

Darcy, writing to Elizabeth,
Pride and Prejudice,
Chapter 35

D
arcy had harbored no intention of letting Bingley enter the library alone. His friend had trouble resisting Kendall’s aggressiveness on a good day; he was presently in no state to deal with the man.

Though at the moment fatigue and pain robbed Bingley of his usual easy demeanor, the accident had rendered his appearance even less formidable. His undone cravat hung loosely about his neck; dirt streaked his white shirt; wet patches darkened his blue coat; his trousers bore several long tears. The scrape on his forehead had started to bruise, and half-melted snow yet coated his hair.

“Do you not at least wish to change your attire?”

Bingley glanced at his clothes and grimaced. “Truly, Darcy, if I climb those stairs, I don’t think I possess the vigor to come back down. Perhaps my state will convince Kendall that he arrives at a poor time to discuss business.”

Or encourage him to press his advantage.
Darcy handed his hat to a tarrying servant and stopped before the hall mirror to
restore his own appearance. He brushed the snow from his shoulders and re-laid the folds of his cravat. Then he mentally braced himself for the encounter ahead.

The ill-mannered gentleman paced the library, the change of rooms having done nothing to improve his mood. “About time,” he muttered as Bingley entered. Toward Darcy he directed only a scowl.

“To what do I owe the honor of this visit?” Bingley dropped into the chair behind his desk. Darcy remained standing near the door, planning to involve himself only if called upon by necessity or a direct invitation from Bingley.

“My solicitors have prepared an amended accounting of company assets at the time your father and I dissolved our partnership.” He withdrew a packet of papers from his breast pocket.

Again?
Darcy reminded himself to stay silent. How many times were they going to revise the same figures?

Kendall laid the papers before Bingley. “The numbers differ widely from those your father presented to me. His records failed to include receipts from an entire shipload of goods from Italy and Spain.”

Frowning, Bingley skimmed the pages. “We’ve discussed this before. You signed away the rights to that cargo in exchange for a flat sum when the partnership ended.”

“Yes, we
have
discussed this before. I told you—we thought the ship lost.” Kendall spoke as if addressing a boy in short pants. “By the time it came in, your father and I had settled affairs between us. He kept the cargo for himself. But half of it is rightfully mine.”

“According to the terms of the agreement—”

“The agreement be damned! He tricked me into signing it—pressured me to resolve our business ‘in a timely fashion’ because of his poor health.”

And, Darcy knew, because the elder Mr. Bingley realized he
was being cheated by Kendall. For years, Kendall’s accounting had been suspect, leading his partner to finally undertake a quiet audit. The inspection revealed embezzlement. Mr. Bingley, battling illness, chose to dissolve the partnership rather than challenge Kendall. He’d wanted the business settled before his death so that Kendall would have no opportunity to further rob his children of their rightful inheritance, and had been willing to assume a loss on the missing ship rather than leave any of his affairs unresolved. To everyone’s surprise, the ship had come in after his death. It bore a rich cargo, though Darcy suspected Kendall’s years’ worth of stealing more than exceeded his “share” of the single ship’s profits.