Another new baby. It seemed all the world had entered an uncommon state of fecundity.
Kitty strolled farther along the gallery, studying various portraits in their turn. She stopped before a full-length painting of a young, dark-haired man with an almost tangible air of self-possession. 'Is this a likeness of your father, Mr. Dash-wood? His resemblance to you is striking.'
In that, Elizabeth concurred. The subject had been captured at about the same age as Harry Dashwood and bore many of the same physical characteristics. But for the clothing that clearly marked him as an inhabitant of the previous century, he and Harry could pass for twins. His eyes, however, seemed to mock the viewer with secret knowledge, and Elizabeth found his sardonic smile unsettling.
'No, my father’s portrait hangs over there. This is Sir Francis Dashwood, probably our most notorious ancestor.'
'What is he notorious for?' Kitty asked.
Darcy cleared his throat. 'If Sir Francis had an estate in Buckinghamshire, as you told me, how did his portrait come to be here?'
'Perhaps it arrived on the same coach as did the looking glass I showed you.' Harry shrugged. 'I discovered the two items together in the attic when I was last here, and thought it highly amusing that Sir Francis and I looked so much alike. So I had the portrait brought down and hung. As for why it may have been brought here, your conjecture is as good as my own. I understand there are numerous paintings of Sir Francis at West Wycombe — perhaps his heirs didn’t think they needed quite so many remembrances of the fellow. If I remember aright, the estate went to a half brother. Maybe the new owner wanted to clean house and live down the old chap’s reputation.'
'What reputation?' Kitty asked again. 'What did he do?'
'Where did you say your father’s portrait is?' Darcy attempted to usher them farther along the gallery.
Elizabeth resisted his shepherding and instead regarded her husband closely. Had his color risen?
'Darcy, that marks the second time you have diverted attention from Kitty’s question. What, exactly, is Sir Francis notorious for?'
He hesitated. 'Ungentlemanlike conduct.'
'A great many men are guilty of that.'
'Not to this degree.'
'Which degree?'
'Suffice it to say that he engaged in behavior unbecoming to himself and his associates.'
The vexing man spoke in circles. 'What does history accuse him of?'
'Things unfit for a lady’s ears.'
Darcy’s prevarication only fueled her curiosity, but his tone brooked no appeal. She resolved to renew the subject later. Perhaps he would reveal more about the mysterious Sir Francis Dash wood when they were alone.
She looked to Mr. Dashwood. 'Well, then. Let us see the portrait of your father.'
John Dashwood’s likeness hung very nearly in the center of the gallery, flanked on one side by a painting of Fanny in her youth and on the other by a pair of portraits depicting young boys of about six and twelve. The children’s portraits reminded Elizabeth of several others she had seen in the house.
'Who are the boys?' Kitty asked.
'Me. Both of them.' Mr. Dashwood looked sheepish. 'My mother has a fixation with having my likeness drawn. She insisted I sit for another last month. I have not yet seen the final painting, though the artist seemed pleased as he worked.'
'Your mother is clearly very fond of you.' Elizabeth spoke in what she hoped was a convincing tone, though in truth she suspected Fanny of being more interested in the image of her son than in the person himself. Mrs. John Dashwood had packed her boy off to boarding school the moment he was old enough to go, apparently preferring still pictures of him to the boisterous company of a real child. Though children of the gentry commonly attended public school, Harry’s parents, like Darcy’s, could have afforded a private tutor if they had wanted one.
Now that Harry had reached adulthood, his mother’s behavior toward Kitty, the chosen object of his affections, indicated that she still valued his appearance — his advancement in society — more than his happiness. Fanny Dash wood was at once indulgent and indifferent, showering her son with all the accoutrements of his class without troubling herself to actually become acquainted with him.
As they left the gallery and returned downstairs, Fanny Dash-wood’s carriage pulled up to the door. They met her in the foyer, where her rain-soaked afternoon of travel and the news of Geor-giana’s absence combined to render her mood as black as the sky.
'Harry, I thought all our guests were arriving tomorrow,' she said through a frozen smile that did not reach her eyes. She reminded Elizabeth of a ventriloquist, but Harry resisted being manipulated like a doll.
'Because Miss Bennet and the Darcys come as my special guests, I invited them to arrive a day early.'
She drew him aside. 'But this evening was to be reserved for family,' she whispered harshly, continuing to display her forced smile for the Darcys’ benefit.
'Yes, it is.' Harry removed her hand from his arm and stepped away. Mrs. Dash wood glared after him as he addressed Kitty and the Darcys. 'My mother has just reminded me that my aunt and uncle, Mr. and Mrs. Robert Ferrars, will be joining us for dinner with their daughter.'
'Will we also have the pleasure of meeting Mr. and Mrs. Edward Ferrars tonight?' Kitty asked.
'They are expected,' Fanny Dashwood responded. The ice in her voice made Kitty look to Elizabeth with trepidation.
'Dinner is at half past five.' Without another word to her son or anyone else, Mrs. Dashwood turned and rigidly climbed the stairs. Harry offered Kitty his arm and suggested that a pot of tea might warm the damp reception Norland had given them thus far.
Elizabeth and Darcy stayed behind a moment as the younger couple walked away. 'Mr. Dashwood
'I believe so. One would use other words to describe the atmosphere indoors'
'And we are to stay in Sussex for a full week.' She released a sigh. 'Happy thought, indeed.'
'The weather might clear.' A mighty thunderclap shook the house, and rain pelted furiously against the windows. 'Eventually.'
'Let us hope so.' She took Darcy’s arm and they followed their host. 'For if the air within the house remains this chilly, we might be forced to flee to Brighton after all.'
Elizabeth chose her dinner attire carefully, though not, she guessed, with as much nervous deliberation as her sister. She ultimately selected an olive-green sarsenet gown with a short train and instructed her maid to dress her hair simply in order to spend more time on Kitty’s. As she finished her preparations alone, Darcy entered.
'You are already dressed,' she noted. He wore his dark blue coat, a favorite of hers.
He watched her clasp her necklace, his gaze lingering on her neck long after her hands had dropped to her sides. 'I want only your company to complete my ensemble,' he said.
'So that I can deflect Mrs. Dashwood’s aura of ill will? You would do better to don the suit of armor in the library.'
'Too heavy. Though I do regret having left my fencing mask in London.'
She retrieved her slippers and sat near the fireplace to put them on. 'One wonders how Mr. Dashwood turned out as amiable as he has, with such a parent to influence him.'
'From the sound of it, she did not maintain enough proximity during his youth to influence his disposition much at all.' He took the slippers from her hands and knelt to slide them on her feet himself.
'Fanny Dashwood does represent a good argument for the benefits of boarding school.' She studied her husband’s face as he grasped her left ankle and slid on one shoe. 'Would you have wanted to attend one at such a tender age, though?'
He stopped what he was doing to consider a moment. 'No. I believe the early education I received from my tutor and father superior to any I could have obtained at a public school, and had I gone away at five or six, I would hardly have known my mother at all before her death. Besides, the older boys at school are often very cruel to the younger ones, and it is hard enough for a lad twice that age to defend himself.'
'How awful! I had no idea.'
'You have no brothers.' He slipped her other shoe over her heel but remained kneeling at her feet. 'I do not
