Carrie Bebris - Pride and Prescience

Darcy approached behind her, meeting her gaze in the mirror. He stayed her fingers, grasping them in his warm, strong hands. “Leave it unbound.”

The wheels spun rapidly, their spokes creating the illusion of backward movement as their rims bit into the light snow. One pair followed the other in perfect alignment, creating two single tracks that snaked along the ground behind the carriage.

Something small and round fell and rolled to the side of the path.

The symmetry ended. The left rear wheel wobbled. It gripped the axle at an angle and held for what seemed an impossibly long time. Stop! she wanted to cry. Stop the carriage!

But the driver could not hear her silent plea. The barouche sped on. The wheel flew off. The horses snorted and whinnied in panic. The vehicle tumbled—

Elizabeth jerked awake. Her heart raced as if she’d been running. Her breathing came in short, labored gasps. She lay still a moment, every muscle tensed, until she recognized the dimly lit room as her chamber at Netherfield.

She inhaled a deep breath and slowly released it. Beside her, Darcy slept peacefully, unaware of her disturbed slumber or the howling wind outside. The waning firelight played across his sinewy body, but her mind was too unsettled to take pleasure in studying him.

For the third time tonight, she’d woken from the same nightmare. Vivid images of Jane and Bingley’s accident repeated themselves in eerie detail. Though she hadn’t witnessed the event in person, she’d seen more than enough of it in her dreams. For some reason, however, she never saw the victims, only the vehicle. Considering the driver’s fate, she was grateful for the censorship.

Somewhere in the house, a clock struck two. She rolled to her side and closed her eyes, but sleep eluded her. The dream had left her body too restless, her mind too anxious. The accident was over, her sister and brother-in-law were safely recovering, yet a vague sense of dread suffused her.

Something was wrong. Was it Jane? Had her sister suffered worse injuries than Mr. Jones realized? Was she in pain right now?

Elizabeth rose and found her dressing gown. She could not rest until she checked on Jane and assured herself that she was all right. Barefoot, she padded to the door, swung it open silently, and slipped out.

The hallway was deserted; even the servants had long since gone to bed. Most of the wall sconces had been extinguished, leaving just enough light to safely negotiate the passage. She contemplated returning to her room for a candle but decided against it. Best make this a quick errand and return to bed.

She had barely started down the hall when the creak of a door stopped her. She thought at first her own door had been caught by a draft caused by the strong winds outside, but then recalled that it had opened soundlessly for her. No, someone else was up and about. Could it be Jane, seeking something to relieve her own or Bingley’s discomfort?

The noise had seemed to come from downstairs, although the weather made her uncertain. The snow had changed to sleet, which now pelted the windows in an angry barrage. She shivered and pulled her dressing gown about her more tightly as she headed down the staircase.

A faint light crept out of the library, and along with it, the wood-against-wood sound of drawers sliding open. Her fellow nocturnal wanderer must be Bingley, though she wondered what business couldn’t wait until morning. Perhaps he, like herself, suffered a sleepless night and sought to make use of the time.

She would ask him if he left Jane resting comfortably. But as she neared the doorway, she realized Bingley wasn’t in the room at all. Lawrence Kendall sat behind the desk rifling through a pile of papers and ledgers.

She caught the gasp that nearly escaped her and stepped into the shadows. She could still see Kendall, but was, she hoped, hidden from his view.

Unlike her, Kendall was dressed save a neckcloth and coat. His attire suggested to her that this was no impromptu snooping sortie, but a deliberate, planned invasion. He scanned the papers quickly, casting each aside after a few moments’ perusal. The ledgers he also flipped through rapidly, skimming a few pages in front, middle, back. The more records he went through, the more deeply he frowned. “Where is it?” he grumbled. “Where the bloody hell is it?”

He stuffed the papers into their portfolio and shoved it, along with the ledgers, back into one of the desk drawers. He then tried to open another drawer but met resistance. He tugged and rattled the drawer around in its housing, but his efforts yielded only noise. “Damn you, Bingley,” he muttered. “Where’s the key?”

His gaze lit upon a letter opener, which he attempted to use as a lock pick without success. Finally, he pushed himself away from the desk in disgust.

Elizabeth, her heart suddenly pounding, backed away from the library door. Where to go? She couldn’t possibly make it up the stairs before Kendall came out. Her gaze darted about the hall until she spotted the drawing room door standing open.

Grateful for the impulse that had led her to undertake this foolish mission barefoot, she scurried into the drawing room and pressed herself against the wall. Seconds later, Kendall emerged from the library. She held her breath as he mounted the stairs. Not until she heard his footsteps recede into the guest wing did she dare move.

The wind moaned. She wanted to do the same. Should she wake Darcy and tell him what she’d just seen? Would Kendall return tonight with better break-in tools to find what he wanted? Before she proceeded any further, she looked to the top of the staircase to make sure Kendall was indeed gone.

Caroline Parrish met her gaze.

Clad in a gauzy white shift and flickering shadows, she gripped the balcony balustrade as she looked down into the entry hall. Though Elizabeth thought they had made eye contact, Mrs. Parrish seemed insensible to Elizabeth’s presence. She rocked slightly, alternately pushing away from the rail and pulling herself toward it. The weak candlelight prevented Elizabeth from reading her expression closely, but she presented a haunted mien.

Caroline shook her head repeatedly, muttering something. Elizabeth could not discern the words with accuracy from this distance, but she thought she heard “no” more than once.

Was Mrs. Parrish sleepwalking again? Still worse to contemplate, might she finish the act she’d attempted in London by hurling herself onto the marble below?

“Caroline?” Elizabeth stepped forward.

Caroline’s rocking ceased immediately as she caught sight of Elizabeth. She backed away from the rail, wringing her hands.

“Mrs. Parrish, let me take you to your room.” Elizabeth ascended the stairs, but stopped midway when Caroline shook her head. “Caroline,” she said gently. “It’s only me, Mrs. Darcy. Let me help you.”

Caroline stared at Elizabeth a long moment. She slowly raised her left hand, cupped, palm toward herself, as if to beckon. Elizabeth advanced. But then Caroline turned suddenly and fled down the corridor. Her rapid footfalls made no sound.

Elizabeth hurried up the remaining stairs, arriving at the top just in time to see Mrs. Parrish’s door close. She blinked, unsure what to make of the incident. Was encountering Caroline in the corridors to become a nightly ritual? She shuddered as a draft caught the back of her neck. A gust of wind beat against the windows.

She scanned for signs that Lawrence Kendall yet moved about, but saw no one else as she returned to her chamber. With great relief, she closed the door behind her and sagged against it.