amusement.”
Poor Professor Randolph — surrounded by skepticism from all quarters! Elizabeth quite felt for the man. She regretted having told Darcy earlier this evening about her encounter with Randolph in the conservatory, sure that the conversation she’d repeated had further prejudiced her husband against the archeologist.
Randolph fished in his waistcoat pocket and withdrew his pocketwatch. The star symbol on the outside caught the firelight as he clicked it open to consult the time. Remembering the runes inscribed within, Elizabeth longed to ask him about them further. But she held her tongue, not wishing to expose him to additional ridicule from their present company.
Bingley also seemed to take compassion on the professor. “Darcy, I wouldn’t cling to my cynicism so stubbornly for all the world,” he declared. “In fact, I’ve half a mind to ask Randolph here to inspect my new estate for evidence of curses and charms before I commit to its purchase.”
“If he actually discovers any, then I will have him to Pemberley for the same.”
“You either chuse this method of passing the evening because you are in each other’s confidence and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking.”
Elizabeth stared at the oak beams above her head, willing herself to fall asleep before the clock struck another hour. Slumber eluded her tonight, though she could not identify why. Darcy, his arm wrapped around her possessively, dozed beside her, oblivious to the insomnia that plagued her.
The sound of footsteps in the hall caught her ears. ’Twas late for even servants to be about. The light steps passed her door, then seemed to backtrack and pass again. Curious, she disentangled herself from Darcy’s embrace and slipped on her dressing gown. She padded to the door, eased it open, and peeked out.
Caroline Parrish paced the hall. She was oddly dressed — wearing nightclothes, but with the addition of shoes and a spencer. Insensible to Elizabeth’s observation, she approached her own door, stopped short, then retreated toward the central staircase. Three times she repeated the ritual before pity moved Elizabeth to intercede.
“Mrs. Parrish,” she whispered, stepping into the hall and closing her own door behind her so as not to disturb Darcy. “Are you all right?”
Caroline halted midstride and regarded Elizabeth uncertainly, as if trying to identify her. Though candles in sconces lent the hall but dim light, the two women stood within a few feet of each other — close enough that Elizabeth could discern several black smudges on Caroline’s nightdress. At that proximity, Elizabeth should have been instantly recognizable to Caroline.
“Mrs. Parrish? It’s me, Elizabeth Darcy. Do you need something?”
Caroline simply stared.
“Mrs. Parrish?”
Caroline did not even blink. Indeed, she seemed even more dazed than when Elizabeth and Darcy had found her wandering Bow Street. Was she sleepwalking? Perhaps she had become disoriented and was unsure which door was hers.
“Come.” Elizabeth beckoned. “Let’s return to your chamber.”
She took Caroline by the hand, noting that her usually well-manicured fingernails were broken and dirty — another sign of the toll her illness had taken upon her. What was happening to this woman? The Caroline Bingley that Elizabeth had known just a week ago would have meticulously maintained even the smallest aspect of her appearance till her dying breath.
Mrs. Parrish allowed herself to be led like a child to her room. When Elizabeth knocked softly on the door, Caroline grasped her arm tightly. The strength of the grip surprised her.
“It’s all right,” Elizabeth said. “This is your chamber.”
The door opened. Mr. Parrish was dressed in his shirtsleeves. “There you — Mrs. Darcy!” The startled gentleman quickly recovered himself. He glanced at his wife, then back to Elizabeth. “Forgive me — I did not expect to find you at my door at so late an hour.”
“I discovered Mrs. Parrish wandering in the hallway.”
“Darling, I was just coming to look for you.” Parrish took both Caroline’s hands in his and drew her into the chamber. “Have you been sleepwalking again?”
Caroline nodded vaguely.
“She may be yet,” Elizabeth said. “She hasn’t spoken a word to me.”
“Well, she’s safe now.” Parrish studied his wife a moment, anxiety stealing into his gaze. He then half-closed the door so that Caroline could not overhear them. “I can see that even here at Netherfield I need to keep a closer eye on her. Thank you, Mrs. Darcy.”
She left the unfortunate couple to themselves and returned to her own bed. Darcy rolled over and spooned against her. “Where did you go?”
“Mrs. Parrish was sleepwalking again.”
“Is she all right?”
“I believe so.”
His arm tightened around her. “You seem to have become her guardian angel.”
She would have laughed at the irony, were the situation not so serious. Caretaker of Caroline — what had she done to deserve that?
Grey clouds hung heavy in the sky, cloaking the landscape in shadow. Bare trees, some scantily clad in tattered leaves tenaciously clinging to their branches, stood as forlorn sentinels along the roadside, while brown patches of dead grass poked through a thin blanket of snow like strands of hair straying through a moth-eaten wool cap.
Elizabeth tucked her lap blanket around her knees and rested her boots atop the hot brick on the carriage floor, grateful for the warmth that crept into her toes. The three-mile ride to her parents’ house seemed long this bleak afternoon, though whether because of her mood or the scenery, she couldn’t say. She leaned back, impatient for their trip to end, depressed that familiar landmarks indicated they’d traveled less than a mile.
Bingley and Jane had set out earlier to tour Haye Park, leaving her and Darcy to follow in their own coach and meet them at Longbourn. Darcy had proven a quiet companion on the journey, no doubt overwhelmed with delight at the prospect of spending a full afternoon conversing with her mother. Perhaps she would take pity on him and suggest an after-dinner walk to interrupt the visit. Or perhaps not. She remained a bit vexed with him for last night’s discussion with Professor Randolph.
Darcy was Darcy — logical to the very center of his being, firmly rooted in reality — and she wouldn’t change him for anything. He’d had to grow up more quickly than she, losing his mother as a boy and his father as a young man barely past his majority. Such a childhood left little time for imaginative play, as he prepared to take on the responsibilities of a great estate and those who depended upon it for their livelihoods. While he respected her mind, he had the advantage of her in education, having studied with private tutors and later taking a degree at Cambridge. As a male, he moved in a world to which she had no access — a world of business and solicitors and politics and law. All of these things made him the man he was, the man she’d chosen to wed. She trusted him to make wise decisions, to know the right answers at times when she did not.
On most matters.
But, God bless him, must he always be so very sure of himself? Must the truth as he saw it and The Truth invariably be one and the same?
“You were unkind to Professor Randolph last night.”
His face registered surprise at the admonishment. “How so?”
“You dismissed his work as silly in a roomful of people who are practically strangers to him.”
