Carrie Bebris - Pride and Prescience

“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.

Darcy 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.