The gate swung open easily. Little remained of the riot of color that had filled the garden throughout the summer. Now, asters and chrysanthemums reined over an otherwise lonely court of fading foliage as the garden settled in for its long winter’s sleep.
Despite the garden’s breathtaking beauty at its peak, Elizabeth had come here perhaps three times during the summer. So much of Pemberley yet held Lady Anne’s imprint that she had feared being consumed by it entirely if she spent much time in Anne’s favorite garden. But today it somehow bade her welcome, promised to soothe her troubled spirits if she lingered awhile.
She headed toward the alcove on her right. Ivy clung to the columns and climbed to the top of the arch, nearly obscuring the brick beneath. Within the sheltered niche, the stone bench beckoned Elizabeth to sit. The bench was cold through her muslin gown, and as a cool breeze gusted in, she regretted her lack of a wrap. She contemplated retrieving her cloak, but the garden held such an atmosphere of peace that she hesitated to leave.
She opened her hand, which still held the key that had fallen out of the desk. Though she had gripped it tightly as she walked—marched—along Pemberley’s paths, she had all but forgotten it as other thoughts tumbled through her mind. Now she turned it round in her hand, wondering what it unlocked. She could not recall any locking drawers in the desk, and the key seemed too short to correspond to a full-sized door.
A low fluttering sensation drew her attention away from the key. Instinctively, her free hand dropped to her abdomen.
There it was again. Stronger this time. Almost like a light tap. Or a tiny—
Kick.
She caught her breath. Could it be? Is this how it felt? A third movement answered her.
A soft smile spread across her lips. “My goodness,” she whispered. “Hello to you, too.”
She sat in stunned surprise as the wondrous moment of quickening drove all other troubles from her heart. Lady Catherine could criticize her from dawn until dusk. Let all at Pemberley canonize Lady Anne as a saint. The Northanger Abbey problem would resolve itself somehow. Her child had moved, and she had felt it.
No further tiny stirrings occurred to delight her, but those she had experienced suffused her with quiet joy. Eventually, however, she could no longer ignore the increasing chill of the stone bench, and with reluctance left the little alcove that had witnessed her momentous discovery. But she did not head directly to the gate. Though cold, she wished to delay her return to the house—and all it represented—just a little while longer.
The paths led her to another point of the garden’s rosette layout, where a solitary laborer worked on hands and knees to dig up expired plants. She recognized him as Mr. Flynn, the head gardener, and wondered that he had not either delegated the task to his numerous assistants or employed their aid to hasten the chore. Mr. Flynn must have seen at least seventy summers, and while he tended the grounds as efficiently as his arthritic hands would allow him, his greatest value to the estate lay in the knowledge and experience with which he directed his undergardeners.
She walked toward him. He saw her approaching and started to rise, but she stayed him with a gesture. “Would not an assistant speed your task?”
“I always tend our lady’s garden myself, ma’am. Lady Anne and I planned it and planted it together; somehow, it doesn’t seem right for anyone else to work in it.”
Our lady’s garden. Even after nearly two decades, the servant spoke of Lady Anne as if she were Pemberley’s mistress still. But somehow, coming from Mr. Flynn, or perhaps in the wake of her own happiness, the words did not bother her.
“Her ladyship certainly left her garden in good keeping,” she said.
He wiped his gnarled hands on a rag so streaked with dirt that Elizabeth debated whether he removed or added to that on his fingers. “I suppose, though, it’s time I trained somebody to take over for me.” He released a weary sigh. “I know I’m slowing down. It’s time I admitted these old bones don’t have too many seasons left.”
“Perhaps tomorrow someone can help you with this task.”
“Oh, not tomorrow, ma’am. Tomorrow is the first of November. All Hallows’ Day. The chrysanthemums must be prepared for placing on the family graves, and I’ll do that myself until I lie in one of my own.”
She had heard of people in some predominantly Catholic countries acknowledging All Saints’ Day by placing flowers on graves, but not in England. She had not realized her husband’s family followed the tradition.
“Do you lay the flowers now?”
“Only when neither the master nor Miss Darcy are at home. Lady Anne began the tradition at Pemberley the year—well, the first year she lost a babe. She used to lay bouquets of hothouse flowers, until the year we introduced the chrysanthemums to her garden. She would lay the flowers herself, accompanied by young Master Darcy from the time he was old enough to walk. The graves of her own children, though—those she visited alone. She would rise before dawn, cut the blooms with her own hands, and fair cover the three little graves with flowers as the sun rose.”
This image of Lady Anne struck Elizabeth with surprising force. Lady Anne had been held before her as such a paragon that Elizabeth had not devoted much thought to her deeper feelings. I cannot bear to bury another, she had written. Now, having just experienced for herself the wonder of sensing a life growing within her, Elizabeth felt a sympathy for Lady Anne that had not touched her before.
She shivered. Mr. Flynn struggled to his feet.
“If you will pardon my saying so, ma’am, you look cold through. May I walk you back to the house?”
She accepted his advice but not his offer of escort, as she did not want to cause the elderly servant undue exertion on her account. Once more indoors, she returned to her morning room and was pleased to find it empty. Lady Catherine had apparently settled elsewhere in the house for the remainder of the afternoon. Or she had embarked on an inspection of every room and closet of Pemberley to determine whether Elizabeth had dared move any other pieces of furniture.
Key still in hand, she withdrew Lady Anne’s letter from the desk and reread it. The words struck her more personally this time, stirred a stronger response within her. She wanted to reach back through the years and succor the writer, locate whatever it was she so desperately wanted and bring it to her.
But what on earth had Lady Anne lost? A maternal heirloom, hidden “too well.” That could mean anything.
She glanced at the key again. Was it related to the present puzzle, or merely another curious find on a day full of discoveries?
Search for me. That seemed the place to begin—not seeking on behalf of Lady Anne, but to uncover the woman herself, to identify the person her mother-in-law had truly been beyond the image everyone remembered. If Elizabeth were ever to know what sort of object the former mistress of Pemberley had valued so highly and exhorted her to find, she would have to know more about Lady Anne Fitzwilliam Darcy.
“There you are.” Darcy’s voice drew her attention to the doorway. “My aunt informed me of your abrupt removal, and I was grown concerned by its length.”
“I went for a walk.”
“To London?”
“No, to the south garden. Though when I departed the house, I think I was vexed enough to march at least as far as London.”
He entered and came to her side. “If it provides any consolation, you left Lady Catherine so incensed that she declares she will not leave her chamber until you apologize.”
“Truly?”
He laughed at her expression. “Do not look so delighted.”
“Had I known relief could be obtained so easily—”
“Elizabeth!”
“You are right; it cannot last. She must emerge eventually.”
“Has it been so very intolerable?”
“I have been accused of thrift where I should be liberal and extravagance where I should exercise economy. I manage my servants ill, my time even worse, and if I have not already embarrassed
myself as a hostess before the neighbors, I should consider myself fortunate.”
“I had been meaning to speak to you about that last point. You really must refrain from resting your feet on the table when the Devonshires come to dine.”
She shrugged. “As her ladyship perpetually reminds me, I simply cannot escape my common upbringing. Satisfy yourself that I have ceased hanging laundry in the sculpture gallery.”
His countenance and manner became more serious. “Does she speak of nothing but your deficiencies?”
“I possess them in sufficient quantity that they alone could occupy her indefinitely, but she also offers her opinions on any subject that comes to mind. A need or condition does not exist for which her ladyship lacks a better prescription than that in current use. She has rattled off receipts for everything from preserving cut flowers to repelling moths.”
“So essentially, my aunt conducts herself as usual.”
He pulled a chair to the side of the desk and sat down near her. “Forgive me. I did not mean for the full burden of entertaining her to fall upon you while I attended to other matters. Has not Georgiana helped divert her?”
“Georgiana has earned my eternal gratitude for her efforts, but your sister is no match for Lady Catherine. I doubt that successfully managing her ladyship lies within the power of any sole person. And as for the other matters commanding your attention, I would much rather you spend your time preparing to meet with Mr. Harper when he arrives than listen to Lady Catherine’s discourse. I can handle your aunt.”
His gaze fell upon the note in her hand. “You are rereading my mother’s letter?”
“I spent a fair amount of time in her garden today, and came away wishing to learn more about her. Do you happen to know whether she left behind any other correspondence?”
“Given the amount in which she engaged, one could presume so. Whether my father saved it is another matter, but my guess is that he did. When she died, he was so distraught that I cannot imagine his discarding anything that had passed through her hands.”
“Where might it be found now?”
“I was a boy. Mrs. Reynolds could best answer that.”
“May I read through it—if it can be found?”
“Indeed, I believe at least one of us ought to read through it. Perhaps we might chance upon a letter from Mrs. Tilney that could illuminate our experience at Northanger.”
“Have you heard from Henry Tilney?”
“I had a short report from him today. No new information, but he has not yet completed the enquiries we discussed. Once Mr. Harper and I have had a chance to confer, I intend to send him to Gloucestershire to work with Mr. Tilney.”
“You mean, to supervise Mr. Tilney.”
“To ensure all leads are followed.”
Elizabeth knew how difficult it was for Darcy to delegate such a critical matter to others rather than performing every particular of it himself. He had been restless since their arrival at Pemberley, even though plenty of estate affairs had arisen during their absence to command what segments of his attention were not absorbed by the Northanger crisis.
“I am sure Mr. Harper and Mr. Tilney will conduct a thorough investigation in Gloucestershire,” she said. “Meanwhile, I shall peruse your mother’s missives with due diligence. The sooner all of us determine what truly transpired at Northanger Abbey, the sooner Lady Catherine can go home.”
Sixteen
Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length closed her eyes.
—Pride and Prejudice
E lizabeth’s mind hovered in that state where dream and wakefulness merge and one cannot quite determine where one ends and the other begins. Images of infants and mothers, letters and locks, keys and chrysanthemums floated through her sleepy consciousness as the rest of her senses similarly teased her. She thought she heard a woman’s voice, felt a gentle touch on the back of her hand, smelled the summertime flowers of Lady Anne’s garden.
The scent of one flower in particular dominated the aromatic illusion. It was a pleasant scent, but unfavorable associations nagged as her foggy mind struggled to identify it. Several minutes passed before she recognized it as the same fragrance that had overwhelmed her as she’d argued with Lady Catherine. She groaned and tried to push Darcy’s aunt out of her otherwise agreeable fancies. It was just like Lady Catherine to intrude where she was least welcome, even Elizabeth’s dreams.
She opened her lids just enough to see that darkness yet cloaked the world. All Pemberley slumbered; even the servants had not yet risen. Only the infrequent pops of the diminishing fire broke the stillness. Despite the warmth provided by Darcy sleeping beside her, Elizabeth fought chill. She had never quite warmed up after yesterday’s prolonged outing, and now that the waning flames of the hearth no longer generated much heat, the room felt especially cold.
Loath to leave even the inadequate heat of her bed, but still less willing to shiver through the unknown number of hours that remained until morning, she reluctantly parted company with the covers and crept across the chamber to bank the fire. She added the fuel, then lingered before the fireplace to let the warmth seep into her bones.
The nearest window faced southeast. Lucy had not completely closed one of the shutters, and as Elizabeth stood she noticed the barest hint of light starting to permeate the landscape. Clouds still stretched across the sky, promising an All Hallows’ Day as grey and somber as had been All Hallows’ Eve.
Her chill diminished, she went to the window and pushed the shutter fully open. The south garden lay in the same sleepy state as the rest of the grounds, but she knew that with dawn approaching Mr. Flynn would soon enter it to prepare the chrysanthemums. Indeed, were Lady Anne still alive, she would have already been within its gates.
Movement within the garden—a figure passing along its paths—caught her gaze. The garden walls and yew trees within its perimeter prevented her from obtaining more than a fleeting glimpse, and the faintness of the light further limited her view, but she presumed the head gardener had reported for duty. A desire to join him possessed her. If Lady Anne could not lay blooms on those three little graves herself, Elizabeth would do it for her. As the sun rose.
She dressed quickly and headed out. A surprised Lucy encountered her leaving her dressing room.
“You are awake early this morning, Mrs. Darcy.”
She did not wish to reveal her errand to the servant, but neither did she want anyone to worry about her. “I could not sleep. Should Mr. Darcy enquire, tell him I thought I would enjoy the sunrise.”
Upon reaching the garden, she found three bouquets of chrysanthemums, tied with ribbons, waiting at the base of a small statue. Mr. Flynn, however, was nowhere about. She glanced at the sky. The clouds had thinned at the eastern horizon, and those closest to the ground had a pinkish cast. Sunrise rapidly approached. If she were to reach the family graves before the sun broke across the horizon, she would have to go very soon. Though she hesitated to take the flowers without the gardener’s knowledge—surely he would wonder what had happened to them upon his return—she picked up the bouquets.
She walked briskly to the churchyard where the Darcy family had buried its dead for generations. While the church that served the estate and nearby village stood near the house, she had been in the cemetery only once before, when Darcy had shown her his parents’ final resting places during her early days at Pemberley. She easily identified the monument that marked Lady Anne’s grave, and knew that his infant siblings lay close beside their mother.
She found the three little headstones: Gregory, Maria, and Faith. The inscriptions of each grey marble slab revealed ages heartbreakingly short—a day of life, an hour, a moment. Each bore a portion of verse from the Gospels. With a silent prayer for all three souls, Elizabeth laid the flowers on the small graves. Just as she placed the final bouquet, the first streak of daylight illuminated the markers.
The brilliant shaft brought out every subtle
hue of the marble. Light and dark gradations became more pronounced, and the angle of the light defined the engraved epitaphs even more boldly. But beneath the inscriptions she had read before, a tiny word, previously unnoticed, appeared at the bottom of each headstone. Across the three markers they read, “Love conquers all.”
So faint they were almost indiscernible, the three words appeared for but a minute against the pattern of each stone. When the angle of the climbing sun shifted, they faded altogether from view.
Elizabeth peered closely at the markers, trailed her fingers over the now-invisible words. The engravings were so small, so shallow, their strokes so thin that she could not feel any variance in the surface of the stone. Had she not been here precisely when sunrise broke, she never would have detected the words. Running as they did across all three headstones, they must have been inscribed sometime after the last of the three children, Faith, had been laid to rest.
She studied Lady Anne’s memorial, read the epitaph that bespoke the heartache Darcy’s father had suffered at her loss. This marker too bore the words “love conquers all,” but carved boldly into the marble. Elizabeth recalled that the words had also appeared in Lady Anne’s letter to her. She had interpreted the line as a general expression of encouragement—perhaps written as much for the author’s sake as the reader’s as she faced her final trial. But now Elizabeth wondered at the connection between the words in the letter and the words on the headstones.
The subject occupied her thoughts throughout her walk back to the south garden, where she found Mr. Flynn just entering the gate. He carried a box of gardening tools and appeared freshly dressed; though she knew he had been working since before dawn, no dirt or other signs of labor yet streaked his clothing.
She hailed him, and he waited for her to pass through the gate.
North by Northanger Page 13
