Carrie Bebris - Pride and Prescience

The woman’s face, bearing, and stride in all ways matched those of the former Miss Bingley. But whyever would Caroline Parrish be walking half-dressed down a menacing London street alone on her wedding night?

“Good heavens, it is her.” Darcy rapped a signal to their driver. “Stay here,” he told Elizabeth as the coach slowed.

The thief Elizabeth had seen earlier, a ragged youth of perhaps fifteen, spotted Caroline’s unguarded handbag. He darted toward her, snatching the reticule as he passed. But the strings of the overstuffed bag became wrapped around her wrist. The force of the swiping attempt spun her round, at last making her sensible of her surroundings. She cried out as she struggled with the criminal, but she did not let go of the reticule.

Darcy leapt out of the still-moving carriage. “He has a knife!” Elizabeth warned, but her words proved unnecessary. The criminal, malice radiating from every line of his dirty, pockmarked face, already brandished the weapon in his bony hand. It glinted in the stuttering light.

“Leave this lady alone.” Darcy, his back to Elizabeth, faced the ruffian. Her heart hammered so loudly in her ears that she scarcely heard his words. Nearby chatter died as people turned their attention to the evening’s latest entertainment.

The young rogue ceased his struggle with Miss Bingley to take Darcy’s measure. Darcy made no move forward, but drew himself up to his full height, over a foot taller than his adversary. She could imagine the forbidding expression on her husband’s face — the piercing gaze, the impassive jaw. She had seen it before. But would it carry the same power on a dark, dangerous street that it did in a drawing room?

It did, thank heaven. The would-be purse snatcher spat on the ground in an impotent display of resistance, then darted into the mist.

Elizabeth released breath she hadn’t realized she held. Praise God the thief had been so young — she doubted even Darcy could have subdued an older criminal with the force of his presence alone. As her husband whisked their friend into the carriage, the surrounding cacophony of begging and bawdiness resumed as if nothing had happened. Indeed, by the standards of these witnesses, nothing had.

Their coachman quickly set the horses in motion. To Elizabeth it seemed they couldn’t move fast enough. Once the scene behind them melted into the fog, Darcy directed the driver to Mr. Parrish’s townhouse.

The incident had shaken Caroline, but otherwise, as far as could be discerned inside the dark coach, had left her physically unharmed. She sat stiffly beside Elizabeth, clutching the reticule in her lap, and nodded in mute acceptance at Darcy’s offer of his cloak.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Parrish?” Darcy asked.

She did not answer, but rather gazed straight ahead as if she hadn’t heard the question.

“Mrs. Parrish?” Darcy echoed. She merely pulled the cloak farther round her shoulders.

“Caroline?” Elizabeth tried. Though the two women had never been intimate enough to use their Christian names, she thought perhaps the new bride had not yet grown accustomed to being addressed by her married name.

Mrs. Parrish at last responded. She turned toward Elizabeth and stared at her as if trying to remember something. “Miss Elizabeth Bennet,” she said finally. Then she looked at the coach’s third passenger. “Mr. Darcy.”

Elizabeth regarded her in shocked silence. Had it really taken her that long to realize who they were? The robbery attempt must have unsettled her more than was visible.

Darcy leaned forward. “Mrs. Parrish, did that thief harm you?”

She shook her head slowly. “No, I just… No.” She straightened in her seat, as if remembering her posture. Her chin recovered its usual tilt. “Thank you, though, for interceding.”

Elizabeth waited, hoping Caroline would now offer some explanation of what she had been doing on the street in the first place. Where was her husband? Had the couple gone out together and become separated? Had she fled their house — the marriage? This was all so exceedingly strange.

When no account appeared forthcoming, she ventured the subject herself. “We were surprised to see you as we passed. Does Mr. Parrish wait for you at home?”

Caroline raised a hand to her temple. “Forgive me, Mrs. Darcy,” she said, her voice as haughty as ever. “I feel a headache coming on.”

The remark silenced Elizabeth as effectively as it no doubt had been intended. She withdrew into the corner of the carriage, the rebuff having smothered all sympathy toward her seatmate. In the year or so she’d known Caroline Bingley Parrish, she’d never aspired to enter the woman’s confidence, never wished to number her among intimate friends. But really! When concerned acquaintances rescued one from robbery and who-knows-what-other harm, some word of explanation seemed a not-unreasonable expectation.

She was tempted to leave Mrs. Parrish and her “headache” to face alone whatever predicament had led to her midnight stroll. Obviously, Elizabeth’s concern was neither solicited nor welcome. Yet she sensed something different about tonight’s rudeness — that it stemmed not, as usual, from disdain toward herself, but from a desire to keep some private anxiety private. For that she could not fault her.

The fact did, however, set one’s mind to wondering what could so trouble a woman who, twelve hours earlier, had declared herself the happiest, most fortunate bride in all England. A glance at Darcy’s face revealed that he, too, knew not what to make of their companion’s behavior. He started to speak, stopped, then began once more. “Mrs. Parrish, is everything quite all right?”

Caroline met his gaze. For a moment, confusion clouded her countenance, and she looked as if she might confide in Darcy. But then her features smoothed and she tilted her chin once more.

“Yes, Mr. Darcy. Quite.”

Mrs. Parrish asked to be dropped off at her door, but Darcy insisted on escorting her into the house. Elizabeth concurred, curious to witness the bridegroom’s reaction to his wandering wife’s homecoming.

Upon opening the door, the butler stepped back, unable to conceal his surprise at the sight of his new mistress standing on the stoop. “Madam! I thought you were within.”

Caroline walked past him without a word and climbed the stairs to the drawing room.

“Is Mr. Parrish at home?” Darcy asked.

“Yes — at least, I believe so.”

“Summon him.”

The butler escorted Elizabeth and Darcy to the drawing room, then continued up to the second story. Caroline waited inside, her back to the door.

It was a good-size room, with furnishings that reflected French taste. While Elizabeth knew the style was not of Parrish’s choosing but his landlord’s, the elegant pieces adorned with boulle marquetry and brass inlay seemed well suited to both master and new mistress. A few ornamental items, such as a small wooden statue of an eagle and a heavy earthenware vase, contrasted but did not clash with the main décor. The accents reminded Elizabeth of the American objects she had seen in Professor Randolph’s exhibit. She wondered if these mementos of home had been gifts from the archeologist.

Rapid strides on the stairs soon brought Mr. Parrish to them. He raked a hand through elevated locks of hair; his shirt, coat, and breeches appeared hastily donned. His face betrayed utter astonishment. Obviously, their arrival had roused him from bed. “Mr. and Mrs. Darcy.” He acknowledged them with a brief bow before quickly moving to his wife’s side.

“Caroline?” When she did not immediately turn around, he laid a hand on her shoulder.

“Oh, Frederick!” Mrs. Parrish spoke so softly that Elizabeth heard only with difficulty. “I’ve had such a fright.”