North by Northanger

by Mr. ; Mrs. Darcy Mystery; Carrie Bebris

  “Aye. She returned from Northanger Abbey with her heart set on seeing their blooms at Pemberley. At first we grew them in the east garden.”

  “Why?”

  “The south did not yet exist—it was only an expanse of lawn. ’Twas Lady Anne’s idea to create a garden there, similar to Mrs. Tilney’s. She and her friend invested considerable thought in its plan—we were two years designing and building it—and it remains today almost exactly as she envisioned it. Most of the same flowers, though I have had to switch some of their beds over the years. The marigolds thrive much better in the south bed, and the violets prefer the north. We added the chrysanthemums her final year.”

  “Lady Anne helped plant the garden herself?”

  “She did. I never saw a lady more willing to dirty her hands—or at least, soil her gloves—than she was for that garden. Until her friend Mrs. Tilney came. Now that lady, she was all eagerness to feel the soil beneath her fingers. She came to the garden each day directly from breakfast, and one morning I actually found her at work when I arrived just after dawn. The two of them—” He shook his head in fond recollection. “Well, it was a pleasure to see Lady Anne so happy with her friend. I believe she enjoyed our lady’s garden all the more for the memories it held of Mrs. Tilney’s visit.”

  Elizabeth suppressed a smile. “You still refer to it as ‘our lady’s garden,’ though Lady Anne has been gone these many years.”

  He glanced at her in puzzlement. “Why would I not? Our Lady—Oh!” He stopped as comprehension caught up with him. “I refer not to Lady Anne, but to the Queen of Heaven.”

  She was not confident she understood his meaning. “The garden is consecrated to the Blessed Virgin?”

  “No, not consecrated. But inspired by her. All of the flowers within Our Lady’s garden are associated with Mary—Madonna lilies, roses, lilies of the valley, cornflowers . . .”

  She recalled Mrs. Tilney’s reference to lilies of the valley as Our Lady’s Tears, and enquired about the cornflowers.

  “They are also known as Mary’s Crown,” he said.

  “And the morning glories?”

  “Our Lady’s Mantle.”

  “Marigolds? Oh—allow me to guess. Mary’s Gold?”

  He smiled. “That is a simple one.”

  She could have quizzed him further—she felt as if she had stumbled upon a hidden code, and looked forward to discovering more as spring and summer brought the garden into full bloom. “Are there many others?”

  “I wager I could name near a hundred. We did not use that many in the south garden, of course—Lady Anne selected her favorites from among the flowers she had seen in the Mary garden at Northanger Abbey. That garden has existed since the nuns were there, and its beauty saved it from significant changes by later owners.”

  “I wonder that during the Dissolution, a garden devoted to Mary was not uprooted on principle.”

  “Mrs. Tilney said that statues and other obvious objects in the garden had been confiscated. But most people do not know the symbolic names of all the flowers it contained, so their association went unnoticed. To the unfamiliar, it was merely a pretty garden. Mrs. Tilney herself did not realize upon first coming to Northanger that the abbey’s former Mary garden yet held connections to the Virgin. But she knew something of flowers, and after spending much time in the garden, became curious enough to learn more. When Lady Anne found the garden at Northanger very peaceful, Mrs. Tilney revealed its connections.”

  “Did Lady Anne name her garden?”

  “Her ladyship desired that her own garden’s connection also be subtle. Though between ourselves we at times called it ‘Our Lady’s garden,’ to everyone else it was simply the south garden, or Lady Anne’s garden.”

  “Yet you called it ‘Our Lady’s garden’ with me.”

  “I had not even realized I had done so until you drew my attention to the fact. I suppose there is a quality in you that reminds me of her.”

  They reached the greenhouse. “I shall just go inside and fetch the Madonna lily for Miss Darcy,” Mr. Flynn said, and smiled. He remained within quite some time, prompting Elizabeth to wonder what took him so long.

  When he at last emerged, he was no longer smiling.

  Twenty-five

  “I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion of him, and to him, too freely.”

  —Mr. Wickham, Pride and Prejudice

  D arcy waited impatiently in the corner of the Boar’s Head common room. He had been informed that the inn was a popular gathering place for officers stationed in Newcastle, and that it enjoyed the patronage of one soldier of particular interest to him. Mr. Wickham had not yet entered the public house, but Darcy had been assured that his eventual arrival could be relied upon with a measure of certainty normally reserved for death and the likelihood of fog in London.

  He might have saved himself wasted time by contacting Wickham to arrange a meeting, but Darcy wanted the advantage of surprise. Anticipation would allow the scoundrel to prepare his natural defenses—a scheming mind and forked tongue—before the interview. Better to catch him unawares if Darcy hoped to extract anything resembling truth.

  And so he sat, slowly consuming a half-pint and watching the door. The room had been three-quarters empty upon his arrival, but had gradually crowded with redcoats who kept the young barmaid steadily occupied with ensuring their tankards never ran dry. She had a familiarness about her that Darcy attributed to her occupation—it often seemed that the same server waited upon the same patrons at every inn and tavern in England. If he had not seen her before, he had seen another girl like her, just as he had seen the officer whose mug she now filled.

  At last, Mr. Wickham sauntered in, to a chorus of salutations. He approached a group of officers standing near the bar and immediately joined their jocular conversation. The barmaid also greeted him, offering a pint. Before she could deliver his beverage, Darcy approached from behind.

  “Mr. Wickham.”

  Wickham turned around. His face registered astonishment upon finding Darcy behind him.

  “Mr. Darcy!” He recovered himself and continued smoothly, “What business brings you to Newcastle?”

  The barmaid gave Wickham his tankard, placing a hand on his arm as she did so. Darcy’s gaze followed her as she walked away. He was reminded of the incident with the housemaid when Wickham had last intruded at Pemberley. He looked at Wickham pointedly. “I came to see how Lydia’s husband conducts himself.”

  Wickham chuckled. “Most faithfully, I assure you. Can I help it if the ladies wish otherwise?”

  Yes, he could help it. The worthless scapegrace could help a great many things. “I would have a word with you.”

  Wickham took Darcy’s measure, his gaze sweeping Darcy from the brim of his hat to the tip of his walking stick, upon which it seemed to linger an overlong time until he finally met Darcy’s eyes once more.

  “And which word would that be?”

  “One I prefer to speak in private, if your comrades would excuse us.” He acknowledged Wickham’s companions with a slight bow.

  “Why, Fitz, you intrigue me.” He studied Darcy’s face, but Darcy maintained his impassive expression despite the scrutiny and the baiting address. “Very well,” he said finally. “Meg? Might I use the back room to confer with my brother?”

  Darcy inwardly flinched at the word “brother,” but betrayed no outward sign of the very response he knew Wickham had intended to provoke. The barmaid called back her consent and they stepped into a small area between the common room and the kitchen. It was empty of people, although through the doorway Darcy could see another girl, younger than Meg, stirring a pot. The din of the common room was slightly muted here, but still burbled steadily.

  Wickham tossed back a swallow of ale and grinned. “Well?”

  Darcy, abhorring the necessity of holding this interview with Wickham at all, did not prolong it with preliminaries. “Do you recall the day my sister was
born?”

  He smirked. “Which one?”

  Darcy could not believe even Wickham had the effrontery to allude to his siblings who had not survived their own birth. He did not dignify the question with a response. “That day, you and I discovered a strongbox in the summerhouse of my mother’s garden.”

  “Ah, yes—I recall that despite my reluctance to disturb the box, you were quite interested in proving your cleverness with locks.”

  “We have no audience, Wickham. And therefore no need to recast events in light more favorable to you. We both know what transpired.”

  He shrugged. “Apparently, our memories differ.”

  “After we restored the box to the summerhouse, did you ever return for it?”

  “Now, why would I do such a thing? It was not mine, after all.”

  Darcy stopped speaking. Silence had the power to create discomfort, and could often provoke a response more effectively than words. Instead, he stared unwaveringly into Wickham’s eyes.

  Wickham tried to match his gaze. But the obvious effort required revealed to Darcy the answer he sought.

  “You did return,” Darcy said.

  Wickham shifted his eyes, looking off toward the common room.

  “What did you do with the box? Where is it now?”

  “Damned if I know!” He finally returned his gaze to Darcy. “Yes, I went back. I planned to try my luck with the lock once more, and break it if I could not determine the combination. But as I was leaving the summerhouse, that old crosspatch Flynn came upon me. He gave me a wigging and took the box.” He shrugged. “I do not know what happened to it after that. I sneaked back into the summerhouse a few times, but never found it in its place again. The old man probably stole it for himself.”

  He took another swig from his tankard and studied Darcy’s countenance. “Why these questions now, Darcy? That box, whatever happened to it, is long gone.”

  “Yes, it is.” If Mr. Flynn confiscated the strongbox, Darcy trusted that the gardener had disposed of it responsibly. When he returned to Pemberley, he had only to ask the longtime servant its whereabouts. Wickham, however, did not need to know anything further about the matter.

  Wickham drained his mug. “My tankard is dry. Have we finished reminiscing?”

  “Indeed. We have quite done.”

  Darcy’s gaze followed Wickham as he strolled through the doorway to the common room, threaded his way though the crowd to rejoin his comrades, and accepted another pint from the accommodating Meg. He did not wish to witness more. What he did not know about Lydia’s husband, he would not have to withhold from Elizabeth.

  The kitchen girl passed through, balancing three steaming bowls of a mixture his nose guessed to be mutton stew. Darcy started to make his exit behind her. As she reached the doorway to the common room, he looked past her to see the inn’s outside door admit yet another person into the close quarters. A woman whose appearance so startled him that he gasped.

  Dorothy.

  No sooner did he identify Northanger Abbey’s false housekeeper than she, happening to glance his way, caught sight of him. Her eyes widened in recognition.

  He hastened to get around the kitchen girl, but she, oblivious to his urgency, blocked his path. Dorothy turned and fled out the door.

  Just as the serving girl cleared the doorway, one of the patrons roguishly slapped her backside. The unanticipated prank caused her to drop the pewter bowls. Hot gravy and chunks of overcooked vegetables splattered across the floor.

  By the time he got around the mess and stepped outside, he found exactly what he expected.

  Dorothy was gone.

  Twenty-six

  We live entirely in the dressing room now, which I like very much; I always feel so much more elegant in it than in the parlour.

  —Jane Austen, letter to Cassandra

  T hough sunlight streamed through the open shutters, it was the sounds of movement in her dressing room that woke Elizabeth. Still half asleep, she lay in bed listening, attempting to determine whether the noises were genuine or a continuation of the illusion she had experienced during the night.

  She had dreamed of Lady Anne. In her imagination, Darcy’s mother had come to her chamber carrying an infant wrapped in Mrs. Tilney’s quilt. The image had seemed so real that Elizabeth had actually risen from bed to follow her into the dressing room, but only the fragrance of the Madonna lily and its ghostly white flowers gleaming in the moonlight had greeted her.

  Afterward, she had been unable to return to sleep. Her now quite rounded belly prevented her from settling into a comfortable position. Within her, the baby had woken and decided that midnight was the perfect hour at which to perform a country dance. No longer producing only occasional light flutterings, the child moved constantly now, often keeping her awake with nocturnal gymnastics even Darcy could feel—when he was home. Apparently, their daughter was blissfully unaware of Dr. Severn’s prohibition against prolonged exertion.

  And so she had lain awake, alone in her bedchamber but with an entire host of visitors inhabiting her thoughts: Lady Anne and George Darcy, General and Mrs. Tilney, Henry and the mysterious Frederick Tilney, Wickham, Lady Catherine, Mr. Flynn . . . Though some of the figures lived in the present, her mind was most occupied with people and events of the past. If only she and Darcy could find Lady Anne’s ivory, perhaps they could put some of the shades to rest and look toward the future.

  It seemed she had just fallen back asleep when the noises in the next room intruded upon her consciousness. She assumed Lucy was in there preparing her morning toilette, but normally her maid performed her duties so quietly that her presence went unnoticed unless Elizabeth was already awake.

  And normally her duties did not include opening a creaking chest lid.

  At the telltale sound, Elizabeth hastened from bed and opened the door to the dressing room. The lid of the trunk fell shut with a thud as Lady Catherine jerked upright.

  “It is about time you rose,” her ladyship declared. “Did you intend to lie about all morning?”

  Lady Catherine’s audacity temporarily stunned Elizabeth into speechlessness. She had just caught Darcy’s aunt intruding where she had no business, and somehow she was in the wrong? She stood in the doorway blinking until she become conscious that the door yet stood open—providing her unwelcome visitor with a partial view of the Darcy-free chamber beyond. She stepped into the dressing room, firmly shut the door behind herself, and donned the dressing gown Lucy had laid out the night before.

  “Lady Catherine, I do not recall inviting you to my private apartment. Further, I do not recall inviting you to make yourself free in it.”

  “I am here for an explanation, Mrs. Darcy.”

  “And you hoped to find it in that trunk?”

  Her ladyship drew herself up indignantly. “I hoped to find you prepared to account for the mischief visited upon me this morning.”

  “What mischief might that be?”

  Lady Catherine thrust a handful of withered flower petals toward her. Ugly brown stains mottled the once-white edges. “I found these scattered on the floor of my bedchamber when I awoke. And the room absolutely reeked of lilies.”

  At the sight of the petals, Elizabeth’s gaze immediately shifted to the Madonna lily beside the window. Though it had been perfectly intact last night, now one of its flowers was missing. Its petals, however, had been perfectly white and were unlikely to have completely deteriorated so quickly. Had Lady Catherine’s petals come from another source?

  When Mr. Flynn had gone to retrieve Lady Anne’s lily for Georgiana, he had discovered it missing. The succeeding four days had evinced no sign of it—until this morning. The thief must have left the dead petals for Lady Catherine, but Elizabeth could not guess the prankster’s identity. Before now, her ruminations had led her to consider Lady Catherine a likely candidate for having stolen the bloom, as her ladyship seemed to take proprietary interest in anything related to her sister. If Lady Anne was to be remembered wi
th a lily, Lady Catherine would covet one, too. But unless Darcy’s aunt presently enacted an elaborate ruse, this development left Elizabeth without another suspect.

  “I cannot explain them.”

  “Do not pretend ignorance. Madonna lilies are well out of season, yet the housekeeper delivered that one to you early this week. From where else could these petals have come?”

  The question sparked nervousness within her. If Darcy’s aunt knew she had received the lily several days ago, how closely did Lady Catherine monitor her apartment and her movements? Darcy was still away from Pemberley—did she suspect his absence? Or was her surveillance motivated only by their race to locate Lady Anne’s ivory?

  “As you can see, the petals on my lily suffer no deterioration such as those exhibit.” Thankfully, as later today she would give the flower to Mr. Flynn as a substitute for the one intended for Lady Anne’s grave. “Those petals must have come from another lily.” Elizabeth watched Lady Catherine as she made the last statement, but her ladyship’s face did not hint at any knowledge of the missing plant. Nor did it suggest that Elizabeth’s response had mollified her in the least.

  “As if this day is not upsetting enough. You do comprehend its significance?”

  “It is Georgiana’s birthday.”

  “Also the anniversary of my sister’s death.”

  “I have not forgotten.” Indeed, she’d hoped Darcy would have somehow completed his errand and returned by today with enough information from Mr. Wickham to locate the statuette. Fulfilling Lady Anne’s last request—that Elizabeth find the missing heirloom for her—seemed a fitting way to acknowledge the date. But Darcy had sent a brief message indicating he had been delayed. He had included no explanation, probably wise considering the tendency toward disappearance that letters and other items at Pemberley had begun to exhibit.

  “I trust my nephew will exert some effort to remember his mother today? Emerging from his sickroom might form a start. This cold of his has gone on quite long enough. He has been taking the physics I provided?”