Carrie Bebris - Pride and Prescience

He stood just beyond a cluster of rue, so engrossed in snipping some bright green leaves off a plant in the herb garden that he did not look up until she greeted him.

“Oh! Mrs. Darcy!” He pushed up his spectacles, almost wounding himself with the small pocketknife in his hand. “I didn’t hear you approach.”

“I am sorry to disturb you.”

“Nonsense! Nonsense!” He folded up the knife and slid it into his trouser pocket. “I was just gathering some spearmint leaves for Mrs. Parrish.”

“I wasn’t aware she had a partiality for mint. Perhaps Jane should inform the cook.”

He withdrew a handkerchief from one of his breast pockets and carefully folded the leaves inside. “Hmm? Oh — it’s not for her to eat. It’s for her to smell. I thought it might aid her recovery — many believe the scent sharpens mental powers.”

“Really? I had no idea it possesses medicinal properties.”

He tucked the handkerchief back into his pocket. “A little bit medicine, a little bit magic.”

“Magic — you mean luck?”

He shrugged. “Many of these plants are more powerful than you might imagine in the hands of an adept herbalist.”

“Another specialty of yours?”

“No, no. I’m just a dabbler myself. As an archeologist, most of my knowledge is of things long dead.”

“Well, I am sure Mr. Parrish appreciates your help with his wife. Have you had much opportunity to observe her yet?”

“A little. She has demonstrated reluctance to converse with me, and won’t discuss her injuries at all. Mr. Parrish’s presence seems to encourage her cooperation, however.”

“She is fortunate in his devotion.” The sun dropped behind the horizon, casting the room in dusky twilight. She shivered, suddenly chilled.

Randolph glanced out the windows, into the darkening night. “The days are growing short. Winter solstice is next week.”

“So is Christmas.”

Her statement received no response. Having fallen into a reverie, he stared at the waxing moon that had already started to rise.

“Professor?”

He shook himself. “Pardon me? Oh, yes — Christmas. We all certainly look forward to that.”

She soon left him in the conservatory and went to dress for dinner, contemplating his casual remark about herbal magic and his greater awareness of the winter solstice than Christmas. She was beginning to consider Professor Randolph one of the most intriguing members of her acquaintance.

“What do you read, Mrs. Darcy?”

“ The Italian .” With little reluctance, Elizabeth closed the volume and set it aside to grant Mr. Parrish her full attention. Between her own scattered thoughts and the light conversation of others in the drawing room, she’d had trouble concentrating on the book and had persevered only to have some occupation from which she could easily withdraw when Darcy was ready to retire for the evening.

“Ah! A fellow admirer of Mrs. Radcliffe.” Parrish grinned and seated himself on the other end of the sofa. “I thought I was alone in that guilty pleasure among this company.”

She glanced round the room. Randolph and Parrish had just abandoned the card table, where the Hursts, Jane, and Bingley still played loo. Darcy sat at the desk penning a letter to Georgiana. A sense of déjà vu seized her as she recalled a similar scene from her first visit to Netherfield, only this time Caroline was not present to laud Darcy on the speed of his writing and evenness of his lines. The lady in question had not left her chamber since her afternoon headache came on, but now, according to her husband, at least slept peacefully.

“Why do you say so?” she asked. “Because no one else is presently reading?”

“Two reasons. First, I thought my partiality outdated — Mrs. Radcliffe has not published a new novel for some years. I wonder that you have not read this one before now.”

“Oh, I have. I chose it because it is an old favorite.”

Parrish picked up the volume. As he thumbed the pages, she noticed the ring on the fourth finger of his left hand. Similar in style to Caroline’s, the wedding band lacked gems, but its engraved sunburst detail marked it as a companion piece. Her chest tightened at the sight of it — a reaction, she supposed, to the strong attachment it symbolized. Double-ring wedding ceremonies were rare. The display of loyalty was especially moving in the face of such early and unexpected marital challenges.

“Elizabeth is too kind in her excuses,” Bingley called from the card table. “She rereads the book because my library lacks many alternatives. I apologize, my new sister, for not yet amending that deficiency.”

Darcy blotted his paper. “Such endeavors take time to carry out properly, Bingley. First find your family a permanent home. Then start collecting books to fill it.”

“Again the subject of an estate arises! It seems none of my friends will rest until Jane and I quit Netherfield.”

“It’s not every day a man gets to spend a fortune,” Parrish said. “Perhaps they want to experience the thrill vicariously. Or they can’t stand the thought of all that money just lying around.”

“Well, it’s in the five percents, so it’s hardly just lying around. But I do realize land would make a better investment. Now that my mother-in-law and closest friend are in collusion — an event I thought I’d never see — I’ll quickly indulge their hopes as well as my own. Jane, shall we visit Haye Park tomorrow on our way to Longbourn?”

Jane expressed delight at the prospect. Elizabeth mused that Haye Park might prove a little too close to their mother, but kept the thought to herself. Instead, she returned to the book discussion.

“You said you had two reasons for surprise at our shared enjoyment of Mrs. Radcliffe’s novels. What is the other?”

“I feared my tastes unrefined. Novels are entertaining but hardly hold the intellectual weight of poetry.”

Professor Randolph took a chair beside the fire. “There is nothing wrong with reading simply for pleasure.” He leaned back and stretched out his legs.

“I agree,” said Darcy, “though Mrs. Radcliffe and her imitators do give ‘pleasure’ a curious form. Readers come to their novels wanting to be scared, wanting to lie awake at night wondering what that noise was on the other side of their own doors.”

“Nonsense, all of it,” Mrs. Hurst declared. “An utter waste of time.”

Elizabeth, despite the reverence in which she held Mrs. Hurst as an authority on the meaningful employment of one’s time, forbore enquiring whether it was gothic romances in particular or reading altogether that she held in disdain. “Professor, do the tales have any merit, in your estimation? I speak not of literary merit, but credibility. Of course they are works of imagination, but…”

“But could supernatural events really occur in our world? Right here, in King George’s England?” Randolph chuckled softly. “They do every day, dear lady. But most people look right past them, seeing only what they want to see, believing only what they wish to be true. Even for those who delight in stories like Mrs. Radcliffe’s, the otherworldly must always be a foreign thing, something that happens somewhere far removed from one’s present place or time.”

“To think otherwise causes one too much discomfort?”

“Precisely. So they block their own awareness and use science to explain anything impossible to ignore. Educated people, at least. Reason has become the new god among the upper classes. Your lower classes, your unrefined societies, these are far more likely to accept the presence of the preternatural in their daily lives — to believe in miracles, or ghosts, or magic.”

Darcy stopped writing in midstroke. “Oh, come now. When one of my tenants tells me his neighbor has cursed his cattle, am I to accept this accusation as the cause of his animals dying? Is it not more likely that some disease has stricken them?”