North by Northanger

by Mr. ; Mrs. Darcy Mystery; Carrie Bebris

  The burble of voices nearly drowned out the musicians playing a Hayden quartet. As he passed clusters of patrons, he caught snatches of conversation—if conversation it could be called. The exchanges among the ton while in Bath varied so little from day to day and year to year that its members could have been players delivering the lines of the city’s longest-running dramatic production.

  “Did you visit the Upper Rooms on Tuesday? It was a sad crush. . . .”

  “There you are, darling! I declare, I have been waiting for you this age. . . .”

  “For six weeks, I allow Bath is pleasant enough; but beyond that, it is the most tiresome place in the world. . . .”

  Darcy reached the King’s Spring, requested a single glass, and renegotiated the crowded room. He found Elizabeth near the great clock and handed her the water.

  “Did you not bring one for yourself?” she asked.

  “No, only you. And young William.”

  “Wilhelmina.”

  “Thomas?”

  “Theresa.”

  “Francis.”

  “With an i or an e?”

  “Drink your water.”

  She was prevented from doing so, however, by a bump from the side caused by someone pushing her way through the densely populated room. Water flew out of the glass, dousing her accidental assailant. The woman turned, and both Darcy and Elizabeth gasped.

  “Lady Catherine!” Elizabeth stammered.

  “Miss Bennet,” spat out Darcy’s incensed aunt. “Forgive me—Mrs. Darcy.”

  Despite the water dripping from her left side, Lady Catherine de Bourgh retained every bit of her usual imperiousness. From beneath her elaborate headdress she glowered at Elizabeth in furious silence for a full half-minute, then turned her glare on Darcy.

  He offered a slight bow. “Lady Catherine.” A movement to her right caught his gaze, and he realized his cousin accompanied her. Between her mother’s overbearing presence and the noisy crowd, Miss Anne de Bourgh had practically faded from notice. Darcy and Elizabeth acknowledged Miss de Bourgh and Mrs. Jenkinson, Anne’s companion, both of whom nodded meekly in response.

  Lady Catherine removed a handkerchief from her reticule and attempted to blot the water soaking her sleeve. “I see you have not acquired any refinement along with your marriage, Mrs. Darcy.”

  Darcy bristled at the unfair attack on Elizabeth. “I believe it was you who jostled my wife.”

  “A lady does not jostle.”

  “No, she does not,” Elizabeth said. She allowed the remark to hang in the air a moment. “Regardless of its cause, however, I am sorry for your unexpected shower. I understand one normally prefers to don a bathing costume before immersion in Bath’s famous waters.”

  Lady Catherine issued a less than gracious reply and finished dabbing her gown. “I did not anticipate seeing you in Bath, Mr. Darcy. What brings you here?”

  Though his aunt would learn eventually that they were increasing their family, he remained too vexed with Lady Catherine for her rudeness toward Elizabeth to reveal the news. “Mrs. Darcy has never visited Bath before,” he said.

  “I suppose her father did not take the family to spas,” she said to Darcy as if Elizabeth were not standing right next to her. “As you know, I bring Anne to Bath nearly every year for the waters. I believe them beneficial to her delicate health.”

  “We also have business with Dr. Richard Severn,” said Elizabeth. Her openness with his aunt surprised him.

  “A physician?” Lady Catherine continued to address only Darcy, but narrowed her gaze. “Are you ill?”

  “Not at all.”

  “Is your wife?”

  “I have never felt better,” Elizabeth replied for herself.

  Lady Catherine at last turned her sharp gaze on Elizabeth and subjected her to a thorough visual assessment. “You do appear in good health,” she admitted grudgingly. “One might even say radi—” She suddenly looked as if Elizabeth had just splashed more water on her. “Mrs. Darcy,” she said accusingly, “are you breeding?”

  “I prefer the term ‘carrying.’ ”

  The news managed to render Lady Catherine speechless—never a small achievement, though the effect was momentary. Darcy and Elizabeth had, after all, been married nearly a year; their expectation of an heir could hardly have been unanticipated.

  “I see.” She stared at Elizabeth further, her expression revealing an inner struggle between equally strong drives to demonstrate haughty disdain and to demand every particular. Apparently, curiosity won out over pride. “We cannot discuss so delicate a subject in a public forum. But I grant you permission to wait upon me in Camden Place.”

  “You are too generous,” Elizabeth said.

  “How long are you staying in Bath?”

  “A fortnight.”

  “So little time? You should remain at least six weeks. You cannot have any reason to rush home, and it is foolish to exhaust yourself with travel.”

  “I am sure a fortnight will prove quite long enough.”

  “Hardly. One requires twice that period simply to become oriented. Which baths have you tried? People speak highly of the King’s and Queen’s baths, but the Cross Bath is superior. I have instructed Anne to use it exclusively. Have you gone into it yet?”

  “No, I have not used any of the baths.”

  “None? But you have, at least, been imbibing the water.”

  “Actually, I was just about to sample it for the first time when you happened past.”

  “You will no doubt find its flavor unpleasant at first. It is an acquired taste. The water is quite fortifying, however. I insist that Anne drink a full pint each day.”

  “Indeed?” Elizabeth said. “And how much do you drink?”

  “I consume a glass daily whilst in Bath, and I advise you to do likewise. It keeps one in good health.”

  Lady Catherine expounded another ten minutes on the benefits of regular pilgrimages to Bath before spotting an acquaintance amid the throng. Darcy took advantage of Lady Dalrymple’s arrival to excuse himself and Elizabeth, citing a wish to take some air.

  “I will expect you in Camden Place on the morrow, Mrs. Darcy,” Lady Catherine said as they departed. “We have important matters to discuss.”

  The crisp air proved refreshing after the closeness of the Pump Room. They walked slowly, passing the abbey and crossing the churchyard to Cheap Street. The road teemed with carriages, horses, and carts, and they were some time waiting to cross it. Indeed, merely standing on the pavement, they found themselves quite in danger of being run over by a gentleman doing a rather poor job of driving four-in-hand, and swearing at his “deuced beasts” for their slow pace. Eventually, however, they traversed the thoroughfare and continued past the guildhall to amble over Pulteney Bridge.

  Shops lined both sides of the stone bridge. Though they paused before several windows to admire the wares for sale, they found little to tempt them. The only shop that captured Elizabeth’s attention was one displaying gentlemen’s walking sticks.

  “Darcy,” she said, pointing. “That cane on the right appears very similar to yours. Did you purchase it here?”

  “Mine was a gift from my father when I left home for Cambridge. I do not know who made it.” Darcy lifted his walking stick and held it across both palms. It was beautifully crafted and one of his favorite possessions; he carried it nearly everywhere. A cinquefoil, recalling the Darcy coat of arms, adorned the head of its silver grip, which ended at a wide band engraved with smaller cinquefoils. He kept its length so richly polished that he could almost see his reflection in the deep red-brown wood. A slight imperfection, where the grain widened around a shilling-sized whorl, marked the cane’s sole flaw, but was scarcely noticeable unless one sought it.

  “My father sometimes came to Bath. He might have bought it here during one of his stays.”

  “Shall we go inside and ask the shopkeeper whether it is his work?”

  He shook his head and returned the cane to its u
sual position at his side. “I would much rather continue walking with you.”

  They journeyed only a few more yards, however, before another shop—a pastry-cook’s—brought Elizabeth to a halt.

  “Are you hungry?” Darcy asked.

  “No, but your daughter is.”

  They went within and enjoyed strawberry ices as they watched passers-by through the shop window. When they had finished, they bought hot Bath cakes to take home. Darcy took her arm as they left the bridge and passed the fountain in Laura Place.

  “I confess surprise that you chose to reveal your condition to my aunt, given her treatment of you since our engagement.”

  “She would learn of it soon enough. Meanwhile, admitting her into our confidence seemed the best means of making amends with her. She is one of your few remaining Fitzwilliam relations, after all.”

  The maternal branch of his family tree was indeed a small one. Lady Catherine was his mother’s only sister. Catherine and Anne’s brother—Lord Hugh Fitzwilliam, Earl of Southwell—had died not long after Lady Anne, leaving the earldom to his eldest son, Roger. Hugh’s second son was a colonel in the army. A third son, a naval officer, had died at sea.

  Darcy appreciated Elizabeth’s willingness to forgive the many insults Lady Catherine had heaped upon her. The breach with his aunt had weighed more heavily upon him than he cared to acknowledge. He considered family connections of utmost importance, relationships to be preserved except in cases of dishonorable conduct that blackened the family name. In their commitment to protecting the family’s reputation, he and his aunt agreed. They differed, however, in their definition of discreditable behavior. Darcy defined it as willful disregard for the legal and ethical rules of society; Lady Catherine, as disregard for the opinions of Lady Catherine.

  “What caused you to believe that news of a child would repair a relationship my aunt herself chose to break? She appeared horrified by the very idea.”

  “Yes, you have chosen an unworthy vessel to bear your offspring. Our progeny will undoubtedly suffer from their inferior maternal ancestry.” Elizabeth held his arm more tightly as they negotiated an uneven stretch of pavement. “However, Jane and my dear friend Charlotte Collins both tell me that the moment the world learns that a woman is in the family way, she becomes a lodestone for unsolicited counsel from all quarters on every possible matter related to her condition. Knowing Lady Catherine’s propensity for instruction, I suspected she would prove unable to resist the opportunity to educate me in everything I have been doing wrong thus far, and to issue endless orders regarding my conduct and habits for the remainder of my wait.”

  “Perhaps you should take notes during your visit tomorrow. You would not wish to forget a valuable piece of advice.”

  “Should she offer one, I shall rely upon you to remind me of it. You do intend to accompany me?”

  “Much as I long to enjoy Lady Catherine’s hospitality, I believe she tendered her invitation solely to you. Besides, I would be completely in your way. My aunt seemed to have matters of a most particular nature to discuss with you, and the presence of a gentleman among the party might hinder even her outspokenness.”

  “That is precisely why I wish you to come.”

  “Did you not just say that you effectively solicited her ladyship’s attention?”

  “That does not mean I look forward to subjecting myself to it.”

  “So now I am to rescue you?” He assisted her up the steps as they reached their lodgings.

  “I would do as much for you.”

  “Endure my aunt’s condescension to spare my suffering? That is love, indeed. But I am afraid you are on your own for this conversation.”

  She looked at him coquettishly—a device so foreign to his straightforward Elizabeth that he nearly laughed to see it.

  “Have you no compassion for the mother of your son?”

  At that, he did laugh. ”Now the child is a boy?”

  He shook his head and led her into the house. “A noble attempt, Mrs. Darcy, but I am unmoved. Lady Catherine’s summons was your own doing. As I intend to teach our young Henry or John, if you create a plight, you must see it through yourself.”

  “That is an important lesson for our child to learn.” She stopped at the hall mirror to remove her bonnet, catching his gaze in the glass. “Little Henrietta or Johanna will thank you for it.”

  Shortly after they settled themselves in the sitting room, a note arrived. The servant informed them that its messenger waited for a response.

  Darcy glanced at the direction. “I do not recognize the hand.” He broke the seal, skimmed its content, then read aloud:

  Edgar’s Buildings

  Bath, 6 October

  Dear Mr. Darcy,

  My discovery of your name in the Pump Room book prompts me to write. Though we are strangers to each other, I believe our families are acquainted. My late mother, Mrs. Victor Tilney, enjoyed the friendship of one Lady Anne Darcy, whom I believe to be your mother.

  Though I understand Lady Anne has also passed away, I would take great pleasure in meeting her son. Unfortunately, my military duties obligate me to depart Bath this very day. However, I plan to return to my country home in Gloucestershire by 18 October, and shall remain there for some time. I would consider myself honored to receive you and Mrs. Darcy at Northanger Abbey as my guests for a se’nnight whenever you make your return journey to Derbyshire.

  I hope your response names the date upon which I will enjoy the pleasure of your company. I am—

  Yours most sincerely,

  Captain Frederick Tilney

  “An intriguing invitation,” Elizabeth said when he finished reading. “Do you recall Mrs. Tilney?”

  “I do not believe I ever met her,” Darcy said.

  “Are you inclined to accept?”

  He thought a moment. “I am. If our mothers were friends, Captain Tilney must come from a worthy family. We can only gain from renewing the connection.”

  And she could only gain from Darcy’s having the novelty of a new acquaintance to distract him from his well-meant but excessive concern for her health.

  “I wonder how old a man he is. He might remember your mother.” It was ironic that they should receive a letter mentioning Lady Anne so soon after discovering the one written by her, but she welcomed the coincidence. With luck, Captain Tilney would bring happier memories to the forefront of Darcy’s mind, and the desperate tone of Lady Anne’s final note would recede from it.

  “Whether he remembers her or not, I look forward to meeting him.” Darcy cast her a look of enquiry. “Unless you would rather not delay our return to Pemberley? Perhaps it would be best for your health if we traveled straight home. We also have arrangements for the harvest feast to oversee.”

  Each autumn, Pemberley hosted a harvest feast for its tenants and villagers. The Darcy family had sponsored the event for generations. Elizabeth looked forward to this year’s day-long celebration, her first as mistress of Pemberley. But they need not forgo the opportunity to meet Captain Tilney—the date of the feast was still many weeks distant, and their steward and housekeeper had preliminary preparations well in hand.

  “No,” she said quickly “I think a stay in Gloucestershire sounds like a pleasant means by which to break up the long journey to Derbyshire. In addition to the diversion of meeting the captain, Northanger Abbey surely offers more comfort than an inn. And plenty of time remains before the harvest feast.”

  “All right, then,” he agreed. “I shall advise Captain Tilney to expect us Tuesday week.”

  Five

  Mrs Coulthard and Anne, late of Manydown, are both dead, and both died in childbed. We have not regaled Mary with this news.

  —Jane Austen, letter to Cassandra

  E nticed by a glorious autumn day—crisp air, warm sunlight, and not a cloud in the cerulean sky—Elizabeth elected to walk to Lady Catherine’s lodgings the following afternoon. She had always preferred the use of her own ten toes to other form
s of travel, but even more so since arriving in Bath. The enclosed sedan chairs by which residents moved around the city created in her such a sense of confinement that each time she hired one, by the time she reached her destination she could barely restrain herself long enough for the bearers to lower it before bursting from the tiny box. So she reserved the cramped, jostling conveyances for times when it rained hard enough to render walking unpleasant even to her—a frequent-enough occurrence in Bath.

  Though not exactly anticipating unmitigated delight in her errand, she set out for Camden Place determined to enjoy the fine weather and opportunity for exercise. Accompanied by her maid, she crossed the bridge and entered Broad Street before turning up Landsdown Road. Here, however, her pace slowed. Bath was a city of hills, some of them quite steep, but she had not realized that Camden Place sat atop one of the most extreme slopes. She found herself stopping to catch her breath as she toiled uphill.

  The struggle surprised her. She considered herself in good form, and was not unused to exertion; she had expected the climb to challenge but not utterly wind her. She raised a hand to her chest and felt her heart racing beneath her fingertips. What was the matter with her today?

  She responded to her maid’s solicitous enquiries with a dismissive shake of her head, certain that she merely needed a few minutes to allow her pulse to resume a less frantic rate, and cited a desire to look in the window of the nearest shop. A display of dolls prompted her to consider the child she carried.

  Would she bear a girl? For all her teasing of Darcy, she of course could not know with certainty. But if the ease with which she imagined the child as female and the difficulty with which she pictured it male meant something, if the midnight whisperings of her heart on restless nights could be trusted, if instinct counted for anything . . . she believed she carried a daughter.