North by Northanger
Page 19
However, much as you want your mother’s gift with you, do not persuade yourself that you can be safely delivered only through its power. Though it may, as your mother’s female line has long believed, bring luck to women in travail, consider that I and all the other mothers of your acquaintance have brought healthy children into the world without benefit of such tokens. That you lost your last babe in the birthing room after surrendering the statuette to Lady C. does not mean you will lose this child. I understand how your previous grief creates in you foreboding over the trial to come, but do not invest all your faith in an object—even a blessed one. Have some in yourself and your own strength.
Trust me. For I am—
Your most devoted friend,
Helen Tilney
Northanger Abbey
30 January 1788
Dear Anne,
Today the west cloister wall was dismantled for repair, and can you imagine what was discovered? The other nine ivories, bundled in a tapestry! Once your statuette left the abbey, the prioress must have hidden these away—better for the Crown to remain ignorant of them all than for a partial set to draw attention to its missing member. The statuettes are exquisite, as detailed and well preserved as yours.
I have asked General Tilney if we might give one of these ivories to you, to replace the figurine your sister withholds. He will not hear of it, and forbids me to broach the matter again. I am sorry, my friend. I wish I could do more, but we have known each other long enough that you understand my real power in this house is nothing. . . .
I remain—
Yours most faithfully,
Helen Tilney
Northanger Abbey
16 February 1788
Dear Anne,
Last night General Tilney and I quarreled again over the statuettes. He intends to sell them! He says they are worth a great deal of money, and that he shall find a collector willing to pay him handsomely. How can he look upon these beautiful, sacred objects and see only their monetary value? I hope they fetch him forty pieces of silver.
He departs tomorrow to join his regiment for a period of time, after which he intends to pursue the sale. I cannot countenance it. You have often invited me to visit you at Pemberley, and I have always deferred to General Tilney’s preference that I not absent myself from Northanger. No more. If you will have me, I shall come within this fortnight. We will be merry as I help you plant your new flower garden and prepare for another Darcy. . . .
28 April 1788 . . . I have safely reached home, but a furious husband awaited me. It seems that during his absence, the statuettes disappeared from Northanger. He accuses me of authoring the business, but I said I could tell him nothing, having been away from the abbey myself these several weeks. He now levels accusation upon me with every glance. For my part, I am glad the ivories—wherever they might be—have escaped his mercenary grasp. . . .
13 May 1788 . . . Words cannot convey an apology adequate enough to address my husband’s actions toward you. Please believe that I was ignorant of his journey to Pemberley until after he returned. When he revealed the nature of his errand to me, I was overcome with mortification. He had suspected me of delivering the missing ivories into your care—allegations which, being of course untrue, I repeatedly denied. But to descend upon you in your own home, and accuse you of harboring the statuettes! It is inexcusable. I am glad your husband ejected him from the house. I hope he did so before General Tilney’s unpardonable conduct distressed you too greatly. What manner of friend am I, to have even inadvertently subjected you to such abuse in your condition?
The entire matter has so upset me that I have taken ill. The bilious fever that periodically plagues me has returned. It shall pass—it always does—but I shall rest easier if I knew a chance existed that my husband’s unforgivable behavior has not cost me your friendship. . . .
21 May 1788 . . . I have recovered my health once more, aided in no small part by the assurance of your continued friendship. Your last letter provided more comfort than any apothecary’s physic, and for it, and the generous sentiments it expressed, I thank you. Though you enjoined me to spare the matter of my husband’s gross misconduct not another moment’s regret, do indulge me in one final expression of most sincere apology. There—that is an end of it, and all is easy between us once more.
My harmony with General Tilney is not so simply restored. Though I say nothing about it to my husband, I have not yet forgiven him. He, meanwhile, continues glowering, but I am grown used to his moods. My recent illness has tempered his displeasure to a degree, and eventually he will find some matter besides the ivories to occupy his thoughts.
My pen moves on to happier subjects. The day you have anticipated these nine months cannot be long off now. I offer up prayers each morning and evening for your safe deliverance, but trust that all will proceed well this time. So certain am I, that I enclose this gift for the new child. Its creation has brought me many hours of pleasure, for I am continually reminded of our friendship and your new garden at Pemberley. How fare your marigolds? Though not yet blooming, I expect they thrive.
When your little one arrives, nestle this quilt around him or her and know that you are ever in my thoughts. . . .
2 June 1788 . . . I grieve with you and Mr. Darcy in the loss of your newborn daughter. I thought surely this time fortune would smile favorably upon you. Why God called Maria to Him, we cannot know, but doubtless Our Lady carried her to Him in Her own arms, and will watch over her with a Mother’s heart until you see her again.
Perhaps in this dark time, your garden might bring you some small measure of comfort. The lilies of the valley—Our Lady’s Tears—should be in bloom. Let She who knows a mother’s sorrow bear some of yours. . . .
6 July 1789 . . . I find myself again unwell—my usual complaint has returned. My daughter is away from home, but Henry and Frederick are a comfort to me. I have not been able to enjoy my favorite walk, or even to sit in my garden. I can see from my window that the marigolds have bloomed. How do yours?
The effort of writing has taxed me beyond expectation, so I will close.
Ever your friend,
H. T.
Northanger Abbey
9 July 1789
Dear Mrs. Darcy,
I regret to inform you that my wife departed this life on the 7th of July, taken by a seizure brought on by fever.
Gen. Victor Tilney
Elizabeth set aside the final letter with a sense of loss, as if Mrs. Tilney’s death had just occurred. Though she had known neither Helen nor Lady Anne, she imagined what Anne’s feelings must have been upon receiving the general’s curt note, and mourned the end of a friendship that had sustained the two women through periods of domestic unhappiness caused by lost children and a tyrannical husband.
With luck, the ivory statuette that had originally brought about their acquaintance would soon be found. Darcy had left Pemberley before sunrise to begin his journey to Newcastle. He had chafed at the necessity of sneaking away from his own home under cover of darkness, but avoiding Lady Catherine’s observance required it. Elizabeth hoped his errand would prove successful and of short duration. Already, his absence had created restlessness within her; no sooner had his carriage slipped from view in the waning moonlight than, relinquishing all hope of returning to sleep, she had retrieved the remaining Northanger Abbey letters from her dressing room to peruse before the fire in their bedchamber. She had been eager to return to them since their fruitless expedition yesterday to the summerhouse, but preparations for Darcy’s departure had consumed their attention. These had included giving over a large part of the evening to Lady Catherine’s familiar orations, which had seemed to imprison them in the drawing room longer than usual after dinner. But the prolonged conversation had enabled Darcy to establish the pretense of developing a cold—a malady that, aided by the adroit management of appearances by Elizabeth and Graham, would grow so much worse this morning that it would require him to avoid company and take to bed fo
r several days. Though not by nature inclined to nor adept at artifice, Darcy had performed creditably enough to elicit an onslaught of suggested remedies from his aunt.
Indeed, it seemed that their scheme to keep Lady Catherine ignorant of Darcy’s mission was off to a promising start. However, upon finishing her reading, Elizabeth wished they had studied the remaining Tilney correspondence before Darcy took leave. He would want to know about the additional statuettes found at Northanger Abbey; perhaps the ivories somehow pertained to their own recent misadventure there. The false Frederick Tilney had enquired about the existence of letters between Helen and Anne, and had spoken of searching for things long forgotten. Had he been alluding to the discovery and subsequent disappearance of the other nine ivories?
She would now have to wait until Darcy returned to share the news and puzzle over it with him. She had no means by which to contact him; he himself had been unsure how soon he would reach Newcastle and where he would lodge. Yet even if she had his direction, she would not commit such important intelligence to paper and risk its miscarriage.
Morning had broken. Lucy would arrive soon to open the shutters and bring her morning chocolate. Elizabeth wanted to intercept her before she entered the bedchamber and noted Darcy’s absence. Although she fully trusted her personal maid, it was best that as few people as possible knew of the ruse, and Darcy’s valet had already by necessity been taken into their confidence. While she thought of it, she rang for Mrs. Reynolds. The housemaids should also be kept from the bedchamber.
She gathered Helen Tilney’s letters and returned them to the trunk in her dressing room. The housekeeper entered momentarily, bearing a large lily that filled the room with fragrance. Though lilies were long out of season, a memory of having encountered the scent somewhat more recently hovered at the edge of Elizabeth’s consciousness.
“Mr. Darcy suffers a cold and wishes to rest in our bedchamber undisturbed,” she said. “Relieve the housemaids of their usual duties in that room until further notice.”
“Yes, madam. Shall I call for the apothecary?” Mrs. Reynolds crossed the room and set the plant on a table beside a large window.
“That is not necessary. Additional sleep and some of the cook’s best broth should restore him within a few days. Graham may bring his meals on a tray.”
“Very good, madam. Lady Catherine has instructed me in the preparation of some remedies and ordered them brought to Mr. Darcy as soon as he wakes. Shall I send them with his breakfast?”
Elizabeth assented. Graham would find a place to dump them out if she could not. She gestured toward the flower. “What is this?”
“Mr. Flynn sent it from the greenhouse, madam. He said he thought you would appreciate it.”
She approached the table and touched one of the perfect white flowers with her fingertips. “I do.” She inhaled deeply, trying to place the sweet smell. “It has an exquisite fragrance.”
“That, it does, madam. I have missed the scent. Madonna lilies were Lady Anne’s favorite, and when they bloomed in summer she had them placed in nearly every room. This chamber and her morning room were practically filled with them. But I do not believe we have had one in the house since her death.”
Anne’s morning room—that was where she had smelled lilies. She had attributed the perfume to Lady Catherine, but come to think on it, she had not detected any fragrance on Darcy’s aunt since. She smiled to herself. That day had been All Hallows’ Eve. Perhaps the scent had been a ghostly afterglow.
Apparently, Lady Anne had received not one, but two gifts as a result of her friendship with Helen Tilney: a crib quilt, and a love of Madonna lilies that had lasted till the end of her days. “Mrs. Reynolds,” Elizabeth said suddenly, “you once told me you came to Pemberley when my husband was four years old. Were you here when Lady Anne was expecting her daughter Maria?”
“Aye, madam. I arrived just before her birth.”
“I understand she received a quilt at that time from her friend Mrs. Tilney. Do you know what became of it?”
“Oh, indeed, madam. After Maria’s death, Lady Anne packed it away. That was such a sad time, losing Maria, and then another baby and her friend Mrs. Tilney the following year. When she was expecting Miss Darcy, however, she brought the quilt out again. She did not want to use it for the new child—she felt it had been created for Maria—but she treasured it for the memories it held of her friend. She displayed it in the nursery, where it hung until Miss Darcy grew too old for that room. When the nursery fell into disuse, I stored it away again.”
“I should like to see it,” Elizabeth said.
“Of course. It is a lovely quilt, covered in flowers. Shall I bring it to you here, or would you like it rehung in the nursery?”
She thought a moment. “The nursery.”
“I shall do so directly, madam.”
Lucy arrived and helped her dress. Afterward, Graham appeared with Darcy’s breakfast and an assortment of unpleasant-looking concoctions. She invited him to dispose of the remedies in whatever manner he saw fit and to enjoy the food while allegedly attending his master—in other words, while standing watch over the empty bedchamber.
After breaking her own fast, Elizabeth went to the nursery, where she found the quilt hanging between two windows overlooking the south garden. She was struck by how many of Pemberley’s rooms central to Lady Anne’s life shared a view of the garden that had also meant so much to her, and felt certain the placement had been deliberate when the garden was created. But whereas Lady Anne’s apartment and morning room viewed the garden from an angle, the nursery aligned with it almost directly.
The quilt, as Mrs. Reynolds had declared, was indeed lovely. Its beautifully detailed blocks depicted a large central four-pointed rosette filled with flowers of numerous types against a white background stitched in a crosshatch pattern. Lilies, roses, morning glories, marigolds, and more were rendered in cheerful colors undiminished by the score of years that had passed since the quilt’s obviously loving creation. A larger version of each flower, with ivy interlacing them, formed the border.
An octagon of less vibrant hue occupied the very center of the rosette, with the outline of a lily stitched upon it. The grey object amid the riot of color gave Elizabeth a moment’s pause—until she glanced from the quilt to the window and back. The octagon was the summerhouse; the lily, the fountain. The entire quilt was a representation of Lady Anne’s garden.
Helen Tilney, who had helped Anne plant her garden and prepare for Maria’s birth during her visit to Pemberley, must have looked out this very nursery window. She had then carried the view home with her to create a baby quilt in its image. It was little wonder that despite her grief over the child for whom it had been intended, Lady Anne could not keep the quilt packed away from sight forever. Such a heartfelt gift was meant to be seen and used.
The Madonna lilies gracing one petal of the rosette reminded Elizabeth of the gift she had received from Mr. Flynn that morning. With a last admiring look at Helen Tilney’s handiwork, she went in search of the gardener. She found him in one of the hothouses instructing a boy of about twelve or thirteen as he transplanted a seedling to a larger pot.
So engrossed was Mr. Flynn in the lesson, that his apprentice noticed Elizabeth first. At the sight of Pemberley’s mistress, the boy became self-conscious and scattered soil across the table. Mr. Flynn glanced up, ascertained the cause of his distraction, and sent his pupil off to water yesterday’s transplants.
Wiping his hands on a rag, the master gardener acknowledged her and asked how he might be of service.
“I require nothing at present,” she said. “I merely came to thank you for the lily.”
“ ’Twas my pleasure, Mrs. Darcy. Now that Pemberley has a mistress once more, it seemed the house should also have Madonna lilies again.”
“It is an unexpected delight to enjoy the fragrance of summer in winter.”
“Lady Anne would have surrounded herself with lilies all the year thro
ugh, if I could have provided them. While she lived, I tried to force the bulbs to produce blooms out of season, but never with success. She’s a temperamental flower, the Madonna. More particular than other lilies. But if you’re patient and care for her with love, she’ll respond in the end.” A twinkle entered his eye. “Like any lady, I suppose.”
Elizabeth smiled. “Obviously, you eventually mastered her, if you have lilies flowering now.”
“One cannot master her. When I stopped trying, and learned to accept her blooms as the heavenly gift they are, that is when she rewarded me. Each year since Lady Anne died, I have been able to leave a Madonna lily in full bloom upon her grave on the anniversary of her death.” An expression of uncertainty crossed his countenance. “Perhaps it is presumptuous of me to do so—I was but a servant to her.”
On the contrary, Elizabeth admired the gardener’s loyalty. “I think it a fitting tribute,” she assured him.
“I always try to force several bulbs in anticipation of the anniversary, but somehow only one thrives. This year, however, two plants flowered. Lady Anne will receive hers on Friday, but I thought perhaps Miss Darcy might enjoy it until then?”
“I am sure she would. Is it here? I can take it back to the house with me now.”
“No, it is in one of the other greenhouses. I shall go retrieve it.”
Elizabeth did not want to trouble the elderly man to bring it all the way back to her. “I will accompany you,” she offered. She also had a secondary motive for seeking out the gardener this morning.
“I understand,” she said as they walked, “that Lady Anne came to appreciate Madonna lilies through her friend Mrs. Tilney.”