Mr and Mrs Darcy 02 Suspense & Sensibility (30 page)

She
turned back to the figure in the mirror. "I--I have to go," she said.

He
shook his head vehemently No! Please--no. He pressed his hands against the
glass.
"But Mr. Dashwood. or whoever
you are--'
Help
me.

Though
the words had no sound, they reverberated in her mind. His haunted expression
beseeched her. Compassion seized her, yet the fact remained that she hadn't the
power to grant his plea.

She
held up her palms. "How can I aid you if I cannot understand you?"

His
jaw and fists clenched in frustration He broke their gaze and brought his hands
up before him. He looked from his fists to the glass as if contemplating
punching the barrier He seemed about to try when his gaze shifted to her palms,
still raised.

He
opened his hands and studied them. Then he raised his head and met her eyes.

He
gestured to her hands. He held his own up and pressed them to the glass. Then
he nodded toward her hands again.

Elizabeth
hesitated. If Professor Randolph had warned against looking directly into the
mirror, pressing ones hands against it to commune with some image that had no original
present seemed like a very poor notion, indeed. She did not know upon whom or
what she gazed. Man or ghost? Benign entity or demonic creature? If she did as
he bade, what would be the consequence? I seem to recall that many of its
owners have met untimely ends, the archaeologist had said. She did not even have
the amulet with her for protection.

She
should leave this instant. Turn her back and walk away. Retrieve help--or
perhaps never return. She owed Mr. Dashwood nothing. He had ceased being an
object deserving her concern the moment he first mistreated Kitty.

If
that transgressor had, in fact, been Mr. Dashwood.
She could not ignore the nagging
impression taking hold of her, that somehow she presently gazed upon the true Harry
Dashwood. Nor could she ignore the desperation in his countenance.

Elizabeth
said a swift, silent prayer. Then lifted her hands to the glass

She is in
a great, drafty room, cluttered with trunks and shrouded furniture. A large,
rectangular object leans against one wall. A slightly smaller and thinner
parcel rests against it. She reaches out to the smaller object. Her hands are
not her own. They are larger - a man's hands. She unwraps the item. It is the
portrait of Sir Francis. She unveils the mirror. Harry Dashwood gazes back at
her. But moves as she moves. His reflection is hers. She is Harry, discovering
the mirror at Norland. Experiencing his memory with dual conciousness--her own
and Harry's.

She is in
a well-appointed dressing room now. Pall Mall bustles outside the window. Her
valet helps her tuck her shirt into her trousers, and offers a cravat. She
approaches the mirror to tie the neckcloth and is startled to see someone else's
face instead. Not her own--not Harry's--but one very like his. The vision lasts
but an instant.

She is in
the dressing room again. She--Harry--straightens her waistcoat before the mirror.
Behind her hangs the portrait of Sir Francis, brought from Norland. She sees
the face in the mirror again. It matches that in the portrait. It speaks.
Come
closer, Harry
. Then the face is gone
again.

It is dark.
She is m bed, alone. Exhausted but afraid to sleep. A voice
whispers in the night.
Trust me. Harry
. She crushes a pillow to her ears and prays for sunrise.

She is in
her own house--her and Darcy's townhouse. Darcy is speaking to her in the hall.
Mr. Dashwood,
if you would but confide in me, perhaps 1 can help you out of this scrape.
She shakes her head. I have to go home. She
returns to Pall Mall and heads rightaway for the mirror.
Show yourself. Sir
Francis
! Nothing happens. She keeps vigil.
No matter what, she cannot allow herself to fall asleep. But fatigue overtakes
her, and she nods off as the candle sputters out.

She
awakens with a start. Twelve white-robed fibres surround the bed, chanting. She
at first takes their song to be a Gregorian
chant
but soon realizes
that the latin words hold a profane undercurrent. She tries to rise from the
bed. but the rhythmless song holds her immobile. One of the monks parts the curtains
to admit the light of the full moon. The shaft illuminates the mirror. Sir Francis
appears. And steps out.

He stands over her. He laughs ominously, a
sound that leaves her
hollow. He offers a blasphemous incantation and reaches toward her. His voice
rises steadily, repeating the same words until they engulf her.
Reddet an
imam pro amma.

He touches her chest. Her heart stops.
Excruciating pain rips through her. She is rent in twain, her spirit torn from
her body. For an instant, all goes black. Then, from the side of the room she
sees her body--Harry's body--on the bed. It sits up and looks a her with Sir
Francis's eyes. He raises an exultant shout.
I am flesh once more
!

She releases a cry of her own and charges
forward. She strikes glass. She sinks to her knees, her hands sliding down the
invisible barrier between herself and her self.

The curtain is drawn. Sir Francis and his
disciples file from the room, and sounds of celebration soon echo below.

Only she remains: the newest prisoner of
the mirror.

Twenty Six

She was mortified, shocked, confounded.

Sense and Sensibility,
Chapter22

Elizabeth
fell to the floor, the force of Harry's memories literally knocking her from
her feet. She curled in a ball, gasping for breath, clutching her head, willing
the ache that pierced her mind to stop. She shut her eyes against the horror of
what she'd witnessed.

Gradually,
the pain diminished. She opened her eyes and raised herself to her knees. She did
not dare look at the mirror again. She stared at the floor, resting on all
fours as she struggled to regain command over herself--to comprehend the knowledge
she'd just received.

Harry
Dashwood was trapped inside the Mirror of Narcissus, and had been for weeks.
While she and Darcy had maintained surveillance outside, suspecting Harry of
wrongdoing, the old Hell-Fire Club had released its leader and imprisoned Harry
in his stead. And while Harry's spirit was trapped. Sir Francis roamed free in
his shell.
It was Sir Francis, then, who had
hurt Kitty, who had insulted her and Darcy. Who led London's bloods in new
explorations of debauchery. Who had alienated Harry's friends and family to the
point of losing his maternal inheritance, then gambled away his estate. It was
Sir Francis whom Elizabeth had left in the drawing room with Elinor, and who
would come looking for her if her absence was realized.

She
pushed herself to her feet. From the corner of her eye, she detected Harry
attempting to capture her attention. She averted her gaze, fixing it instead
upon the door. She prayed Sir Francis would not come through it while she
deliberated what to do.

Harry
must be released from the mirror But how? His body and soul had been separated
through some unholy ritual enacted by Sir Francis and twelve others--all of them
practiced communicants. What could she, ignorant of their rites, unprepared for
the test of spirit, accomplish alone? She regreted again the lack of Professor
Randolph's amulet. She needed its protection. She needed the archaeologist's
knowledge. She needed a plan. She needed Darcy.

"I
am leaving to summon assistance, Mr. Dashwood." She did not know how he
responded to the statement, for she yet avoided sight of the glass.
"But I shall return. I give you
my word."

She
descended to the drawing room, wondering how long she'd been gone and what had
transpired in the interim.
Thankfully, she heard Elinor's
voice, indicating that Harry's aunt and Mr. Dashwood--Sir Francis--were yet in
conference.
God willing, they remained unaware
that she'd been anywhere but waiting in the hall.

She
entered to find Sir Francis well into a new bottle of brimstone. The smell of
the liquor made her stomach roil, and the sight of him filled her with
revulsion. She concentrated on maintaining a steady countenance so as not to
betray her new knowledge of him.

"Mrs.
Darcy" Sir Francis greeted her "Have you elected to rejoin us?"

"I
am afraid that I feel indisposed and would like to return home. Mrs. Ferrars,
if you have not completed your call, I would be happy to send my carriage back
to convey you whenever you are ready"

"You
do look raiher peaked," Sir Francis observed.

She
realized belatedly that in having so studiously avoided looking into the
mirror, she had no idea whether her ordeal had left any telltale effects. But
if her appearance made her look even more ill than she felt, so much the
better.

"Let
us leave at once, Mrs. Darcy." Elinor said, "for my business here is
finished."

"Yes,
my aunt was taking me to task for my irresponsible behavior, until I iniormed
her that I shall soon be settling down. I am engaged to be married, you
see."

Elizabeth
blinked at the unexpected news. "May I ask who the lady is?"

"My
lovely cousin Regina."

"Congratulations."
She did her best to mask the speculation the announcement occasioned. Was this,
she wondered, the subject of his earlier row with Lucy Ferrars? With Norland
lost and Regina in possession of Fanny's fortune, the match Regina's pushy mama
had once so aggressively pursued was now of advantage only to Mr Dashwood.
"I wish you better success in reaching the altar this time"

"Oh,
I shall reach it. We plan to wed as soon as a special license can be
procured."

Having
sacrificed Harry's estate to the pursuit of pleasure, Sir Francis would thus
secure the remainder of Harry's rightful fortune. Meanwhile the unsuspecting
Regina would be trapped in a marriage with the devil in disguise.

"That
is little time to prepare for a wedding. How does Miss Ferrars feel about such
a brief engagement?"

"She
is flattered by the intensity of my ardor."

Of
course she was. The green girl had never received a second look from any man
until Fanny settled her fortune upon her, and by then she'd been groomed by her
mother to covet Mr. Dashwood's addresses above all others.

Her
head yet ached, and this new intelligence only worsened it. Repeating her plea
of indisposition, she departed with Elinor. She wanted nothing more than to get
away from this place, to consult Professor Randolph and to confide in Darcy.

Twenty Seven

"You will tell me, I know, that this may, or may
not
have happened; but I will listen to no cavil, unless you can point
out any other understanding of this affair as satisfactory as this."

-
Mrs
Dashwood to her daughter Elinor,

Sense and Sensibility,
Chapter 15

Darcy
glowered at Julian Randolph. "If my wife has endangered herself as the
result of a conversation with you--"
"I'm sure she has not."
the professor said hastily. "I've called today only as a precaution"

Darcy
was little satisfied. Until Elizabeth returned home from her leavetaking of
Elinor Ferrars and promised to not so much as muse about Mr. Dashwood or his
mirror, he would hold Randolph culpable for every moment of his own uneasiness.
The archaeologist had called at their townhouse following a discussion he and
Elizabeth had had several days ago, a meeting Mrs Darcy apparently had not felt
the need to mention to her husband. When Darcy learned its nature, he guessed
why. Randolph had been filling her head with his supernatural nonsense again.

He
listened impatiently for sounds of Elizabeth's return and had left the drawing
room door open to aid his hearing. He was not angry with her, but he wanted
very much to discuss this business with her directly. Elizabeth tended to place
too much credence in Professor Randolph's preposterous notions, and Darcy wanted
to counter his influence.

"So
I am to understand that based on some half-remembered tales of an old Greek
mirror, you have convinced my wife that Mr Dashwood's glass is a legendary artifact
known as the Mirror of Narcissus? And further, that after persuading her to
obtain another look at this object, you have since come to believe it is cursed?"

"I
speculated that it might be the legendary mirror, and suggested that a better
description would provide more certainty. Mrs Darcy then told me that the
mirror had been returned to Sussex, making it doubtful that she'll come into
contact with it again. As it turns out, that is a fortuitous circumstance"
He tapped the cover of the book he had brought with him, a worn
volume with tattered pages. "Since speaking with her, I have further researched
the mirror's history. Based on my findings, I came here to urge her to stay away
from the glass altogether in the unlikely event that an opportunity to view it
should arise."

"On
that point, you and I are united. Though it is the artifacts owner that I wish
her to avoid. The mirror itself cannot possibly be the one in question--its
craftsmanship is too modern for it to have been fashioned in ancient
times."