“How did Frederick respond?”
“He wished her a fair journey.”
Henry asked the butler a few more questions, then dismissed him from the room.
“So,” Henry said, “Mrs. Stanford aspired to become Mrs. Frederick Tilney, and when my brother disillusioned her, they parted ways.”
“Not necessarily. The information I obtained in Newcastle suggests that they reconciled. By all accounts, they were still together when Captain Tilney died. Either Mrs. Stanford accepted the limitations of their relationship, or thought that given more time she could change his mind.”
“But she ran out of time. My brother was killed, and she was left with nothing.”
“So she enlisted an accomplice to pose as Captain Tilney and—” And do what? Here, logic failed for Darcy. How did any of this pertain to him and Elizabeth? “If she believed herself entitled to part of your brother’s fortune, why did she not simply steal the diamonds for herself? Why concoct an elaborate scheme involving me, and what did she accomplish by it?”
“Perhaps you were not meant to be caught with the diamonds. You did not know your walking stick had been replaced, or that the substitute contained them. Perhaps she planned to retrieve the jewels later, with you none the wiser for having transported them.”
“Again, for what reason did she select me — Fitzwilliam Darcy — as their unwitting conductor? I, who had no connection to her, and only the slightest one to your family. How could she even have known our mothers shared a friendship three decades ago?”
“Yet that was the subject of your conversation with Frederick’s imposter, was it not? Did he not enquire about letters between them?”
“Yes — which, by the way, we have discovered.”
“Indeed? Might they bring anything to bear on this puzzle?”
“I have not read them all, though I expect Mrs. Darcy has by now. Apparently, the acquaintance between our mothers began when my mother contacted your parents for information regarding an ivory statuette that had belonged to Northanger Abbey before the Dissolution. The figurine entered her family’s possession at that time, though I understand there were nine others.”
Henry rolled his eyes. “Indeed, there were — I cannot tell you how often we heard about them. They were quite valuable, and my father hoped to sell them for a handsome sum. But before he found a buyer, they disappeared from the house.”
“Had your father any notion of their fate?”
“He most certainly did. My mother had opposed the sale, and he accused her of having hidden the statuettes or given them away. If she did, it was the one time she ever defied him. But he never found them, and he resented the loss of those ivories to his dying day. I think he complained about them to my poor brother even more than to my sister or me. He often said that my mother had robbed Frederick of part of his inheritance.”
“Did Frederick share that opinion?”
“I think he doubted her capacity to resist my father’s will. She bore a great deal from him. His presence in this house was so strong that it eclipsed hers. While she lived, the house reflected my father’s taste, not hers, and after she died hardly anything retained her influence. Her apartment went untouched, but her favorite garden gave way to a pinery, and even her portrait was removed from the drawing room. Very few of her effects remain — we have, for instance, no letters written to or from her such as you were so fortunate to discover at Pemberley. I should like to see them, if I might.”
“Of course,” Darcy said. He paused as a thought struck him. “In fact, given the interest Frederick’s imposter had in them, perhaps you would like to read them sooner rather than later. Your better knowledge of their author might enable you to discover something in them that my wife and I cannot. Would you care to come to Pemberley?”
Henry readily accepted, and they fixed upon a date in the near future. Darcy would have invited Mr. Tilney to accompany him back to Pemberley immediately, but when he departed Northanger on the morrow he would head south, not north.
He had one more stop to make.
Twenty-Eight
There was a scarcity of men in general, and a still greater scarcity of any that were good for much.
— Jane Austen, letter to Cassandra
“Dr. Severn has arrived, ma’am.”
Elizabeth almost poked herself with her needle. Her lying-in was not anticipated for another several weeks, and she doubted the physician had suddenly developed such interest in her as to journey to Derbyshire early just to lend his support. She would sooner credit him with intending to disrupt the impromptu concert to which Georgiana presently treated her and Lady Catherine in the music room.
“Dr. Severn? I did not send for him.”
Georgiana’s hands stilled on the pianoforte. “I did.”
Elizabeth directed a questioning gaze toward her.
“I wrote to him the day your leg failed.” Georgiana rose and crossed the room to Elizabeth’s side. “Please do not be angry. Had I not, and something unfortunate happened, my brother would never forgive me.”
She could not resent Georgiana for her concern, nor for the love and loyalty to her brother — and to herself — that had motivated the summons. “I am not angry. You acted as Darcy directed.”
Part of Elizabeth was glad for the opportunity to confirm Mrs. Godwin’s assessment with the doctor. The rest of her dreaded the conversation. She always left their exchanges with the sense that Dr. Severn considered her ignorant, incompetent, and insignificant. “Settle him in the guest wing,” she told Mrs. Reynolds. “I will receive him in my dressing room afterward.”
“It is about time someone in this house summoned a doctor,” Lady Catherine declared. “My nephew must be at death’s door. I have not seen him since — I cannot recall. It has been well over a se’nnight. As soon as this Dr. Severn finishes with you, I insist he cure Mr. Darcy’s cold.”
Darcy’s “illness” had lingered so long that the excuse was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain. Lady Catherine grew more suspicious by the hour. Perhaps Elizabeth needed to adjust her strategy.
“Mr. Darcy is much improved today. In fact, he rose early and went shooting.”
Lady Catherine eyed her skeptically. “So I may look forward to seeing him at dinner?”
So much for cleverness. As Darcy still had not found his way back to Pemberley, Elizabeth could not possibly produce him by dinner for his aunt’s benefit. “He declared himself so in want of fresh air and activity that he might not return in time for dinner.”
“Hmph.”
Elizabeth went to her dressing room, where she found the housemaid just finishing her duties. Jenny greeted her cheerfully. At least someone in the house offered a pleasant word.
“How are you finding life at Pemberley, Jenny?”
“I like it very well, ma’am.”
“I am glad for it.” She crossed to the window that overlooked Lady Anne’s garden. The snowdrops were beginning to bloom, just in time for Candlemas.
“ ’Tis a pretty garden,” Jenny said.
Elizabeth agreed. “Prettier when in full flower, of course. Was there much in bloom when you first arrived?”
“Chrysanthemums. And a few others still holding their petals. There were some bright orange flowers over in that part of the garden off to the right — near the yew. I could not tell from this distance what they were.”
“I believe you refer to the marigolds.”
“Well, they were lovely, whatever they were. Not,” she hastened to add, “that I spend my time gazing out the windows when I am supposed to be working, ma’am.”
As Jenny left, Elizabeth rang for Lucy. She wanted her maid present primarily for propriety’s sake during the doctor’s examination, but the moral support would not be unwelcome. She arrived just before the physician. Though only three of them occupied the room — Lucy as unobtrusively as possible — Dr. Severn’s presence made it feel crowded.
“Miss Darcy wrote that your leg
troubled you,” he said. Without Darcy in the room, he for once had no choice but to actually address her.
“Yes. Earlier this week, it went numb.”
“Then why do you stand upon it presently?”
“Because presently it is not numb.”
“And what were you doing when the numbness occurred?”
She hesitated. “Standing.”
He jerked his chin toward the chaise longue. “Sit down.”
She followed his order, extending her legs along the seat. He approached and began to examine her left leg.
“It was the right leg that lost sensation.”
He made no reply, only a cursory assessment of both limbs.
“A hot compress helped,” Elizabeth offered.
He rose from her side and straightened his coat. Apparently, his examination was concluded. “When do you expect the child?”
Was it not his duty to remember such a vital detail? “Early March. You are coming to Pemberley two weeks hence in anticipation, correct?”
He withdrew a small notebook and pencil from his medical bag and made a note. “I believe I just accepted another patient due about that time, who has chosen a London confinement. I shall have to reconcile my schedule.”
“Have you not reserved several weeks for us? Mr. Darcy and I both understood you would arrive at Pemberley a fortnight prior to the expected date to ensure you are present when my travail begins.”
“Right. Yes.” He released a disgusted sigh. “This would all be much simpler if you had arranged a London confinement.”
So he could disregard her even more efficiently? “This would all be much pleasanter if you would consider me a patient instead of an inconvenience.”
He looked at her coldly. “Fortunately, Mrs. Darcy, I am grown used to the temperamental outbursts of women in your condition.” He shut his bag and prepared to leave. “Restrict yourself to the house. No walks. Except for moving from one room to another, remain seated so as not to tax the leg.”
“For how long?”
“Until after your lying-in.”
She put a hand to the base of her spine and stretched her back. Already, she had grown uncomfortable maintaining one position. How could she sit still for weeks?
“Sitting for prolonged periods causes its own discomforts. Might I at least stroll in the gallery with care? Mrs. Godwin advised—”
“Mrs. who?”
“The midwife.”
“You have been consulting some uneducated gossip again?”
“Our apothecary is away, and I desired counsel while waiting for you to arrive.”
“Now that I have come, you can dismiss whatever ignorant advice she provided.”
“She merely said that—”
“In fact, Mrs. Darcy, to avoid your having to call upon her, or me, again between now and the day you are brought to bed, I order you to take to your bed now. That should prevent you from experiencing the numbness or any other problems.”
“I am to remain in bed for weeks before my child is even born?”
“Yes. You—” He addressed Lucy. “Assist your mistress into bed.”
“But I do not want to go to bed. I—”
“Do you want something to happen to that child?” The indifference in his voice indicated that he personally did not care whether a mishap occurred or not.
Her hand dropped to her belly — whether to instinctively protect her daughter from the suggestion or the physician himself, she was unsure. “Of course not.”
“Then do not endanger it with foolish resistance to the best medical advice available to you.” He abruptly turned his back and left.
In the heavy silence that followed, Lucy approached. “Shall I help you into—”
“No!”
Elizabeth immediately regretted the outburst. It was Dr. Severn who had deserved it. She apologized to the maid.
“It is not my place to say so, Mrs. Darcy, but if I were headed for childbed, that man is the last person I would want helping me.”
Elizabeth was inclined to agree. Dr. Severn was an arrogant misogynist. He made her feel small. His latest advice seemed motivated more by his own convenience than her well-being. Yet he was an authority whose expertise she needed. Her hand stroked the baby. Did she dare violate his instructions?
She no longer trusted her own instincts. Frustration, anxiety, fatigue — not just from the interview, but the accumulation of months — overwhelmed her.
“Forgive my saying so, ma’am, but you do look tired. Perhaps a nap might restore you.”
“Perhaps.”
She allowed Lucy to lead her to the bedchamber. Though she had surrendered the Madonna lily to Mr. Flynn days ago and its scent had receded soon after, the intoxicating perfume seemed to hang strong in the air once more.
Lucy sneezed. “My — I think Jenny overdid it.”
“Overdid what?”
“I saw her remove a bottle of toilet water from the stillroom. She must have sprinkled it on the sheets.”
Elizabeth found the scent soothing. She would have to thank the housemaid for her thoughtfulness.
Lucy settled her into bed, but she sat up almost as soon as the maid left the room. She was too agitated to rest. Dr. Severn expected her to spend all her waking hours this way for the remainder of her pregnancy? Boredom would drive her mad. How many hours could one sit and stare at the same paneled wall?
At least it was an interesting wall, with carvings of leaves and birds standing out in relief. The pattern drew the eye from one figure to the next. Having nothing better to do, she allowed her gaze to rest on each image and was struck by the level of detail. Some long-ago artisan had expended considerable time and skill to surround her with beauty she had never before appreciated.
Each repetition of the pattern formed an exact duplicate, save one. On the panel directly across from the bed, a turtledove’s wing cocked at an odd angle. She rose from bed for a closer look. Apparently, the wing had separated from the rest of the carving at some time in the past, and had been reaffixed with a small nail. The nail, however, was not perfectly centered, nor quite as wide as the hole surrounding it, so the wing had slipped askew — revealing a small keyhole.
And she knew just the key to try.
With steps as brisk as she could manage, she went to her escritoire for the key that had fallen from Lady Anne’s desk. She found it beneath the small stack of Helen Tilney’s letters.
She paused a moment. She’d misplaced those letters, had she not? Now here they were, precisely where she had last seen them.
She would not contemplate her forgetfulness just now. Key in hand, she eagerly returned to the bedchamber. The key slid perfectly into the small hole, and as she turned it she heard a soft click.
The panel sprang open to reveal a shallow niche in the wall. Within rested a small, leatherbound book. She removed the volume and opened it to the first page.
Familiar handwriting met her gaze.
Twenty-Nine
“My father... had the highest opinion of him... As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner.”
— Mr. Darcy, Pride and Prejudice
The old shopkeeper took the cane from Darcy. He held it in the light and examined it from grip to tip with the familiar touch of a craftsman. His fingers ran down its length until they reached the imperfection in the grain.
“Yes, this is my work. Made it — oh, must be ten, twelve years ago? I remember this little flaw. The gentleman who bought the walking stick hesitated over the purchase — said it was a gift for someone very dear to him and he wanted perfection. I explained that the beauty of wood lies in its variances.” He chuckled. “Like people.”
Darcy accepted the walking stick back. The detour to Bath had proven worthwhile if only to hear the paraphrase of his father’s words about him. But he hoped to obtain more valuable information. “Have you made a similar cane recently? One with a hidden compartment?”
/>
The shopkeeper regarded Darcy warily.
“My interest is in the purchaser, not the creator,” Darcy said.
“Some years back, another gentleman came in here. Said he admired a walking stick bought here and was determined to have one just like it. Described this one perfectly. Then he asked if I could fashion his with a hollow center. He claimed it was for brandy.”
“If he commissioned the walking stick, he must have left his name.”
“He did. Let me see. It was Derby — no, Darcy. George Darcy.”
“You must be mistaken. That was my father’s name.” Darcy held forward his own cane once more. “The man who purchased this walking stick.”
The shopkeeper drew his brows together. “I am fairly certain. I do not receive many orders for canes with such compartments. I can check my ledger if you wish.”
Darcy wished very much, indeed. The shopkeeper disappeared into his back room and returned a few minutes later with his record book. He paged through it, traveling back through the years—1810, 1809, 1808... Darcy shifted his walking stick from hand to hand as he waited impatiently for the old man to locate the entry.
“Ah, here it is.” The craftsman at last pointed to a line. “George Darcy, just as I recalled. Ordered the cane on the fourteenth of June, eighteen hundred four.”
His father had still been alive then. “Was it the same gentleman who bought this walking stick?”
“No, a young man. University lad, I assumed, what with the brandy compartment and all.”
“Can you describe him?”
The shopkeeper shook his head. “I cannot recall his features clearly. Mind you, ten years have passed.”
Even without a description, an unpleasant suspicion of the gentleman’s identity formed in Darcy’s mind. Darcy had been at university himself at the time. Any one of his Cambridge acquaintances could have seen and admired his walking stick. A few of them might have thought it clever to own a cane with a hidden brandy compartment.
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