North by Northanger

by Mr. ; Mrs. Darcy Mystery; Carrie Bebris

  “I hope I did not bewilder you when you discovered the chrysanthemum bouquets gone this morning,” she said as they walked together toward the garden’s interior. “I would have told you I was taking them to the cemetery, but I did not see you about.”

  Mr. Flynn appeared confused. He started to speak, stopped, and made a second attempt. “I was not about, ma’am. Mr. Darcy requested all the flowers be ready at noon, so I am only just now coming to prepare them.”

  “But—” Now Elizabeth regarded the gardener in puzzlement. “But from my window I saw someone in here before dawn, and when I reached the garden, three bouquets were waiting.”

  “ ‘Twas not my doing, ma’am.”

  “That is certainly curious. If you did not leave them, who did?”

  A twinkle entered his clear blue eyes. “My da might have said a garden sprite, being as last night was All Hallows’ Eve,” he said. “But I suspect one of my assistants decided to spare my old bones a little work. They all think I’m too old to be up working before the sun, though not a one of them would be so bold as to tell me directly.”

  He surveyed the chrysanthemums, chose a grouping of plants, and settled down to his task.

  “May I help?” she offered.

  “You already have,” he said. “It might not be my place to say so, ma’am, but I expect her ladyship appreciated your being there at sunrise.”

  Elizabeth returned to the house to find Darcy already dressed and breakfasting. Generally an early riser, he had become even more so since arriving home from Gloucestershire. She knew the unsettled state of affairs involving Northanger caused him restlessness that interfered with his sleep. Either that, or he wanted to be clear of the breakfast room before Lady Catherine entered it.

  “I was wondering where you had hidden yourself this morning,” he said when he saw her.

  “Did not Lucy tell you?”

  “I did not ask her.”

  As the room was empty of anyone save him, she kissed his cheek before heading to the sideboard. The morning’s activities and unusually early start had left her famished. “I awoke with the sudden urge to beg your aunt’s permission to name our child after her. I rousted her from bed to make my supplication, and was rewarded not only with her consent, but with pledges of her everlasting regard and affection for me. We have been closeted together these several hours planning her permanent residence at Pemberley so that we need never part.”

  She sat down beside him, and he covered her left hand with his. “As credible as I find your explanation, I believe you instead have been out walking again.”

  “How did you know?”

  “Your eyes are brightened by the exercise. And your fingers are cold.”

  She snatched her hand away. “Here I thought you were being tender. You only wanted to gather evidence.”

  “There is also a flower petal in your hair.” He removed the yellow floret and set it on the table. “Chrysanthemum?”

  “I laid flowers on the graves of your siblings this morning.” She watched his countenance as she spoke. “I hope I did not overstep?”

  “No,” he said quietly. “In fact, I am pleased that you wanted to do so. As matriarch of the Darcy family, you ought to take part in all our traditions. I should have told you of today’s observance myself. How did you come to learn of it?”

  “Mr. Flynn.”

  “Of course. You said you went to my mother’s garden yesterday.” He continued eating his breakfast. “Speaking of my mother, I have asked Mrs. Reynolds about her correspondence, and she believes it went to one of the attics in a trunk. Would you like it brought down?”

  “Yes—to my dressing room.” There she could read through it without fear of intrusion by Lady Catherine. “Would you care to read the letters with me?”

  “I can join you this afternoon, but I must spend the morning in conference with Mr. Clarke regarding the harvest feast.”

  Mr. Clarke likely needed as little instruction in the feast preparations as Mrs. Reynolds had—indeed, the servants were so well versed in their responsibilities that Elizabeth had felt more like a guest than the hostess when she had reviewed the details with the staff. She looked forward to the celebration as a welcome distraction from recent events in Gloucestershire. And from their current houseguest.

  “Have you many particulars yet to settle?”

  “Mr. Clarke has everything in order—I just want to review it all before Mr. Harper arrives. An express came while you were out, advising us to expect him on the morrow.”

  “Thank goodness. I suppose neither Mr. Clarke nor I shall see much of you while Mr. Harper is at Pemberley?”

  “Yes, although once we confer, he is of most use to me in Gloucestershire and London, where he can build our case and engage a barrister to argue for us in court, if it comes to that.”

  “Perhaps he can also persuade Mr. Melbourne that this custody arrangement with Lady Catherine is entirely unnecessary.”

  “I thought you had become intimate friends?”

  “An intimacy best enjoyed from a distance.”

  Though he had finished his own breakfast, Darcy remained in the room with her until she finished hers. She was happy for his companionship, as she felt as if she had not seen much of him since their return to Pemberley. When her appetite—both for food and for his conversation—was appeased, he rose.

  “You will accompany me and Georgiana at noon, then?”

  “I would not miss it.”

  After spending an hour in her morning room, she made her way back to their apartment. Mrs. Reynolds stopped her in the hall. “I have just spoken to Mr. Darcy. Lady Anne’s papers are being brought to your dressing room now, ma’am.”

  “Already? Thank you.”

  “Ma’am?” She paused. “You did want all of her correspondence delivered there?”

  “Yes, all of it.” The unusually early start to her day had left her with several unoccupied hours until noon, and she looked forward to leisurely perusing the letters.

  “Very good, ma’am. I just wanted to be certain.”

  “Nine?”

  Elizabeth regarded her dressing room in astonishment. Or rather, what had once been her dressing room. It now resembled a coachyard full of luggage.

  “There are two more trunks still in the attic, ma’am,” said one of the footmen as he and a partner set their most recent burden on the floor.

  “Leave them there for now, or I shall not be able to cross the room.”

  Indeed, when the men left, she barely had space to shut the door. Nine trunks, and more upstairs yet.

  She lifted the lid of one and found it full of letters. How many letters could fit inside a trunk? One hundred? Three? This was not a task to be undertaken without reinforcements. Hearing sounds of movement in her bedroom, she maneuvered her way to that door. A housemaid tidied the chamber.

  “Do you know whether Miss Darcy has risen?” Elizabeth asked.

  The maid paused in sweeping the carpet. “I believe Miss Darcy is with her aunt, ma’am.”

  Elizabeth had no desire to interrupt that tête-à-tête. She would seek Georgiana later.

  “Is there anything else, ma’am?”

  “No. Yes—I do not believe I have seen you before.”

  “Just started recently, ma’am. Name’s Jenny.” She spoke in an accent that sounded even more northern than the Derbyshire inflections to which Elizabeth was becoming accustomed.

  “Are you far from home?”

  “A ways, ma’am. But happy to be here.”

  Elizabeth offered her a smile. “Welcome to Pemberley, Jenny.”

  With a deep breath, she turned back to the dressing room. Nine trunks, each likely containing hundreds of letters. Where did one begin?

  “Jenny, when you have finished with the bedchamber, I believe I shall need some tea.”

  Seventeen

  Where shall I begin? Which of all my important nothings shall I tell you first?

  —Jane Austen, lett
er to Cassandra

  We depart for London on Friday. How soon shall I have the pleasure of seeing you there? I understand G. D. is already in town. . . .

  Yrs etc, A. Parker

  Elizabeth stood, stretched, and rubbed her back. Save for a break at noon to lay the chrysanthemums with Darcy and Georgiana, she had done nothing all day but read through Lady Anne’s letters. Her predecessor at Pemberley had, it seemed, single-handedly kept half the postal workers in England employed. She had maintained regular communication with dozens of correspondents—kin, friends, social acquaintances—had received intermittent notes from still more, and had apparently saved every letter that entered the house. With this many letters coming in, Elizabeth could only imagine how many must have gone out. How had Lady Anne ever set down her pen long enough to have something to write about?

  Most of the letters Elizabeth had read so far largely contained the minutiae of daily life. Should she actually read through each letter in the trunks, she would probably come away with an intimate knowledge of every genteel family in Derbyshire and many prominent members of London’s ton. Who had visited whom, who had become engaged, who had lately wed, who had been expecting, whose children had learned their alphabets, whose sons had left for Oxford, who had taken ill, who had just died.

  As interesting a portrait as such news and gossip painted of the neighborhood—even if the details were over twenty years old—Elizabeth wished she could somehow read more of Lady Anne’s own letters, the ones she had written and to which this mountain of correspondence responded. She could infer some of their content from the replies Anne had received (“I am sorry to hear Fitzwilliam suffers such pain cutting his third tooth. Have you attempted lancing the gum?”), but such surmises lacked Anne’s voice.

  She pushed a stray lock of hair away from her forehead with the back of her hand, careful not to touch her face or white cap with inkstained fingers. Just then, Darcy entered.

  He met the spectacle of Elizabeth amid the sea of open trunks with bemusement. “When you told me earlier that my mother had left behind such a collection of letters, I did not fully comprehend its size.”

  “It is a wonder your entire inheritance was not spent on postage.”

  “Have you found anything of interest?”

  “Plenty of interest, though nothing related to Northanger Abbey yet. If Lady Anne did correspond with Mrs. Tilney, however, the letters must be here somewhere.”

  Darcy took off his coat. “Then let us devise a methodical plan for sorting through all of this.”

  “From what I have managed to determine, the trunks are loosely organized by date. That is, most of a given year’s correspondence can be found in the same trunk, with some trunks holding multiple years. Your mother probably filled them gradually, storing the letters as they arrived and moving each trunk to the attic when it became full.”

  “That would explain why Mrs. Reynolds recalled that one trunk of correspondence went up there when her personal effects were packed away, yet nine came down today.”

  “Since we do not know when your mother and Mrs. Tilney formed their friendship, I began with the trunk that contained the oldest letters. They might be too old, however—most of them predate your parents’ marriage.”

  “Perhaps, then, we ought to set aside that trunk at present and select another.”

  “Do you not wish to read the opinions of your mother’s friends regarding their courtship?”

  “I am not certain. Do I?”

  “Most of them favored it. Lady Constance Richfield thought your father was terribly handsome, and so did Lady Amelia Parker. In fact, I just finished reading one of Lady Amelia’s letters.” She knelt down and retrieved a letter from one of several piles, then unfolded the note and skimmed to the middle. “Here it is—‘I am all impatience to hear whether G. D. has declared himself yet. If he does, you must prevail upon your father to grant his consent. Your parents might favor an alliance with Lord E. for his title, but D.’s fortune rivals that of the marquess and E. cannot match him for looks. Were D. half so handsome, I would still consider his countenance the most pleasing of any gentleman I know.’ ”

  The praise elicited a smile from Darcy. “I did not realize my father held such attraction for the ladies in his youth. Though Lady Amelia could not have found Lord E.’s profile too displeasing, for she is now a marchioness and bears the name Everett.” He sat down beside her and picked up another letter. “What else have you found?”

  “That one is from your aunt.” Elizabeth hesitated, unsure whether Darcy ought to learn the opinions Lady Catherine had expressed about his father before the marriage. The knowledge might further tax their already tense relationship.

  He noted her expression. “Allow me to guess—my aunt offered different advice?” He opened the letter. “ ‘If you can form an alliance with a man of both title and fortune, you should do so. It is your duty to your family, yourself, and your progeny to marry as well as you can. Reports have reached my ears that on the eve of securing one of the country’s most eligible peers, you are encouraging the attention of a certain wealthy but untitled gentleman. Need I remind you that you are the daughter of an earl? Why settle for a mere gentleman when you could ally the Fitzwilliams with a man of both fortune and rank, as I have done? Do not argue that affection should be considered. Affection has no place in such an important decision as marriage.’ ”

  “The view Lady Catherine expresses of your father in that letter varies radically from the manner in which she speaks of the Darcy family now. I wonder how much time passed before she resigned herself to the marriage?”

  “Most likely, the day the engagement was announced. Though my father lacked a title, their marriage offered my mother and her family everything else they could desire in an alliance: fortune, land, and a connection with an old and worthy family. Once the decision had been made, Lady Catherine would have wasted little time cultivating the advantages of the connection.” He reached for another letter.

  “I have already read through those. Perhaps you could start reading some from another trunk.”

  “This one?” He slid forward a tooled leather chest about half the size of the others. “How old are these letters?”

  She had not noticed the box before. “I cannot tell you. I must have overlooked that chest amid all the larger ones.”

  He opened the box. Two sets of letters, each tied with ribbon, rested within. He untied one of the ribbons and picked up the top letter. “This is my father’s hand.” He fanned out the bundle. “All of them are.”

  He untied the ribbon on the second packet. “And this is my mother’s writing. These are addressed to him.”

  She opened several of Lady Anne’s letters and quickly skimmed the pages. Darcy did the same with his father’s.

  “Love letters!” She whispered it like a secret. “Can you tell which is the oldest?”

  “This one is dated the third of January, seventeen eighty-three. It is not exactly a love letter—it was written before their engagement, and is actually addressed to my uncle.”

  I return herewith your sister’s volume of Chaucer, with gratitude for her having lent it to me. Please tell Lady Anne that at her behest, I reread the general prologue on my journey home, and find that her observations have enhanced my appreciation for the Tales. Whether that pleasure derives from the opinions themselves or the memory of the lively manner in which she delivered them, I cannot say. I shall, however, never again encounter Madame Eglentyne without recalling my visit to Riveton Hall. Nor shall I commit the error of expressing surprise that a friend’s younger sister has read the great poet. If Lady Anne will indulge me, I look forward to continuing our discussion when I join your party at Riveton between Hilary and Easter terms.

  “Your father and uncle attended Cambridge together?” Elizabeth asked.

  “Yes, that is how my parents met. My uncle brought a party of friends home with him one Christmas, my father among them. His first night there, he and my mo
ther, who was a bit of a bluestocking, became engaged in a debate over something in The Canterbury Tales, to the amusement of all the gentlemen.”

  “They fell in love over poetry?”

  “I believe it was more the badinage between them than the topic. My father appreciated her quick wit and animated spirit.”

  “Traits all men should prize,” Elizabeth declared. Her own husband had once told her that he’d admired her for the liveliness of her mind. “Meanwhile, your mother’s family worked to arrange a marriage between her and Lord Everett. If your mother and father formed an attachment during his first visit, Easter must have seemed very far off, indeed—particularly since they could not with propriety correspond with each other directly. When and how did your father next write?”

  The next letter on the stack was smaller than the others, and multiple crease lines indicated that it had once been well folded. He opened the note. “April.”

  Dear Lady Anne—Pray forgive the liberty I take in writing you this note. Though I depart for Pemberley today, I leave something behind at Riveton. As its nature renders a third party unable to transport it, your brother cannot bring it with him when we meet again at Cambridge. It therefore lies in your care. I hope it is not an unwelcome burden, and that one day you might return it. Believe me—

  Your most sincere and humble servant,

  G. Darcy

  Elizabeth smiled. George Darcy had not wanted to leave Riveton without ensuring that Lady Anne knew she had won his regard. In a house full of people on a busy morning of departure, how had George delivered the note? Had he pressed it into Anne’s hand upon parting? Conveyed it through a servant?

  “A clandestine letter. Are you shocked by your father’s impropriety?”

  “Yes.” Darcy considered a moment. “And no. He was not a man to leave anything to chance. If something occurred shortly before his departure that caused her to doubt him, he would not have quit Riveton without finding some means by which to communicate his intentions. His persistence was one of the qualities I admired most in him.” He refolded the letter, his expression contemplative.