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.
But only one would be so bold as to use the name George Darcy.
Thirty
Till she had made herself mistress of its contents, however, she could have neither repose nor comfort; and with the sun’s first rays she was determined to peruse it.
—Northanger Abbey
I am once more with child.
My sentiments upon realizing my state have been jumbled. I never thought to carry a child again, did not believe I would ever feel another life quicken in my womb. The fear of losing this baby, as I have so many others, nearly paralyzes me. Yet it is only through risk that we can reap reward, and it would be a precious gift indeed to love another son or daughter as I adore my darling Fitzwilliam. . . .
I told George last night. He was quiet as he heard the news. I could see in his dear face that the expectation of another child brought him happiness, but that he hesitated to express it without first ascertaining my feelings. I confessed that I have reread his letter so often I have committed it to memory, and that I desperately want to trust once again the words that brought us together. He held me tightly and we talked long into the night, voiced many things too long left unsaid. He believes this child is meant to be, and in his embrace, I believe it, too.
Even so, I cannot escape the apprehension that my heart will again be shattered. My thoughts stray to my own mother and the treasure she bequeathed to me. I remember her placing the ivory in my hands, and telling me, as I unwrapped the statuette, that the Madonna enfolded mother and child in a mantle of protection. I regret ever having relinquished it to Catherine. My sister does not know what she possesses. She cannot comprehend the true worth of what lies within the small casket. . . .
I have written to Catherine again. I have given up battling her for ownership of our mother’s treasure and ask only for its loan. . . .
Catherine has agreed to lend me the ivory! She still claims it as her own, and insists upon its surrender after the birth. Very well. Once this child is born, she may keep the statuette for herself. Our Mother’s legacy, I will retain. . . .
George journeyed to Kent to bear the treasure safely home—I would entrust its transport to no one else. A peace I have not known for a decade suffused me as I opened the lid and saw the aged statuette enfolded in its old, tattered wrap. To repay my sister’s kindness, I shall return the ivory in a new velvet cover, one better suited to her sensibilities. . . .
Catherine comes to visit. God forgive me for thinking so ill of my sister, but I worry that she has changed her mind about our mother’s treasure and will try to take it back before I have done with it. I have moved the casket out of the house entirely, to a place she would never think to look should the whim seize her. I doubt anyone else would stumble upon it either, but in the event, I have taken the precaution of putting a lock on the casket. I felt somewhat impious, locking away the Madonna and Child, but I think Madame Eglentyne would approve. . . .
Catherine has left; the treasure remains safe. And so do the child and I.
Elizabeth closed the journal but did not set it aside. She absently held it against her chest, her thoughts occupied by its author.
Lady Anne had awaited Georgiana’s birth with optimism. George had restored her faith in their bond, and the ivory had done the rest.
The blessed figurine had removed Anne’s self-doubt. And when it disappeared, Anne had somehow known that she would never have an opportunity to reclaim it herself. So she had reached out to someone she would never meet, but whom she hoped would understand the value of her treasure.
Elizabeth understood.
She too yearned for assurance that all was and would remain well as she embarked on this journey of motherhood. The changes in her body, the growing child’s toll on her own physical strength, uncertainty about the impending birth and how she would adjust to motherhood afterward . . . all conspired to assail her confidence. She had never felt so vulnerable in her life.
Lady Anne had faced this trial many times before her, had known the doubts a woman carries in her heart as she carries a child under it. In her own last hours, she had hoped to spare her daughter-in-law some of that anxiety. She had urged Elizabeth to find her missing treasure.
Find it she would. For them both.
Thirty-one
To be sorry I find many occasions. The first is, that your return is to be delayed, and whether I ever get beyond the first is doubtful.
—Jane Austen, letter to Cassandra
M rs. Darcy, where—precisely—did you say my nephew is at present?”
Elizabeth experienced a moment’s panic. Where had she said Darcy was this morning? In the village, meeting with tenants? No, that was yesterday. Riding? Perhaps—she had used that excuse multiple times. Penning a letter to Mr. Harper? That seemed like a safe pretense. He had no lack of business requiring communication with his solicitor, as his aunt well knew.
She struggled to a standing position to acknowledge her ladyship’s appearance in the doorway of her morning room. The baby was now so large that there was no truly graceful way to rise from her seat anymore. Were Lady Catherine a more sympathetic woman, she might have bade Elizabeth dispense with the formality—but then she would not be Lady Catherine.
“I believe he is in the library dispatching some correspondence,” Elizabeth said.
“I have just come from the library; it is unoccupied.”
Confound it. Ever since Dr. Severn had circumscribed Elizabeth’s mobility, Lady Catherine was literally one step ahead of her. Though upon the physician’s departure Elizabeth had reverted to his original dictate of restricting herself to sitting within the house—the subsequent order of confinement to bed having, in her mind, resulted solely from his fit of pique—the command had re
ndered it nearly impossible to monitor Darcy’s aunt. Her ladyship moved about Pemberley too freely, and consequently had caught her in more than one falsehood regarding Darcy’s whereabouts. If Darcy did not return home on the morrow, Elizabeth doubted her ability to maintain the facade any longer.
“He was there earlier. He must have completed his letter.”
Lady Catherine stalked across the drawing room to plant herself in front of Elizabeth. “Does my nephew avoid me? Has he no respect for his aunt? No sensibility of the duties of a host to his guest? I have not seen him in weeks! Every time I seek him out, he has just left the room, or has requested not to be disturbed, or has retired for the evening. Is he truly so engaged every day that he cannot come to dinner?” She narrowed her eyes. “I begin to wonder if you play some game with me, Mrs. Darcy. I will not be taken for a fool.”
“I assure you, Lady Catherine, I play no game.” She found the burden of keeping up appearances not the least bit amusing.
“Hmph.” Lady Catherine settled herself into a chair.
Elizabeth returned to her own seat and picked up her book. She had originally come to the morning room for a change of environs as she wrote some letters of her own, but the glare of the sun at this particular hour drove her from the desk. The other side of the room had proven more hospitable, so she had sent a servant to retrieve the Chaucer volume from her apartment. After hearing Georgiana read Lady Eglentyne’s description from the opening of The Canterbury Tales, Elizabeth had thought perhaps the Prioress’s Tale would provide amusement. It turned out, however, to be the grisly story of a murdered child, a theme not at all suited to her present spirits or general taste. At the moment she also lacked the patience and concentration that Chaucer’s language required of her, and had been about to abandon the volume altogether when Lady Catherine entered.
“That is an enormous tome,” her ladyship declared. “What on earth do you read?”
“Geoffrey Chaucer.”
“Not those bawdy tales, I hope? Though I suppose you might find such matter diverting.”
The appearance of Mrs. Reynolds provided a welcome distraction. “You have visitors, ma’am. Your—”
“Lizzy!”
Elizabeth’s eyes widened. “Mama! What a”—she swallowed—“delightful surprise.” Her father, an even more unexpected guest, also entered. “And Papa.” She mustered a smile. “I did not anticipate you for another month, Mama.”
“Now, Lizzy, you know babies come early sometimes. Look at Jane! If we waited another month I might miss all the excitement.”
That had been the general idea.
Elizabeth extricated herself from her seat once more and waddled forward to greet them. An embrace with her father proved awkward—her protruding middle preceded her into it by some distance—so she settled for grasping hands with her mother.
“Look at you!” Her mother beamed. “So fat!” She reached out and patted Elizabeth’s roundness. “Gracious, Lizzy, you are big as a house!”
Elizabeth’s smile became still more forced. “Thank you, Mama.”
Mrs. Bennet touched her belly again. “And you are carrying low—that means it is a boy! Mr. Bennet, we shall have another grandson!”
“Before you issue the announcements, my dear, I would remind you that you cited the same evidence five times to assure me you carried a son. And it all came to naught.”
“Oh, but I was never as plump as Lizzy!”
Perceiving that her mother’s hand threatened a third dart toward her abdomen, Elizabeth sidestepped the assault by turning toward Lady Catherine.
“Your ladyship, I believe you have met my mother.”
Lady Catherine acknowledged Mrs. Bennet with a nod and displayed enough civility to submit to an introduction to her father. When the formality had been performed, Elizabeth invited her parents to sit.
Her father, in passing, caught her arm and winked. “Your mother was plumper,” he whispered.
When all were comfortably settled, Elizabeth enquired after their journey.
“Oh, it was fair enough,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Though long. Did it not seem long to you, Mr. Bennet?”
“Indeed, it seemed much longer than when I traveled alone in August.”
“The roads were probably better in summer,” Mrs. Bennet said. “Did your ladyship find them agreeable?”
“Perfectly agreeable. My carriage is well sprung and comfortably outfitted.”
“Oh, yes! I recall admiring your chaise when you honored us with your visit to Longbourn.”
Lady Catherine offered no reply. Mrs. Bennet, who could never bear silence, cast about for another topic.
“We did not expect the pleasure of finding you at Pemberley, your ladyship. Are you come in anticipation of Elizabeth’s lying-in?”
Lady Catherine cast Elizabeth a pointed glance. “I have business with my nephew.”
“Oh, yes. Of course.” Mrs. Bennet smiled at Lady Catherine, but the disdainful stare she received in return discouraged her from gazing too long in her ladyship’s direction. She instead focused her admiration on Elizabeth’s belly. “Lizzy, how is Mr. Darcy? I hope he spoils you. A gentleman cannot indulge his wife too much when she is in a delicate condition.”
“He is quite well.”
“Surely he hopes for a son. Men always do, at least until they have an heir.” She sighed. “Lord knows we would have preferred to keep Longbourn in the family. Not that we begrudge Mr. Collins the entail,” she said emphatically, looking at Lady Catherine. The Bennet heir served as her ladyship’s rector back in Kent. “But for years I worried about what would become of us should misfortune take Mr. Bennet.”
“It comforts me exceedingly to know you spent so much time contemplating my demise,” he said.
“I never gave a thought to myself, mind you. But I agonized, as only a mother can—surely your ladyship sympathizes—over the futures of my five daughters, with no inheritance of their own and no brother to provide for them. What would have become of them? But now three are happily married, and Kitty too as soon as her young man is of an age to take orders. Poor Mr. Dashwood—he had a great fortune, but lost it in some confusing business in London last spring, so now he is gone into the church. However, with Jane and Elizabeth so well established, I hope Mary will find a rich young man who can hold on to his money.”
“I imagine you do,” Lady Catherine said coldly.
“Well, Lizzy, you shall have a boy, and Pemberley will be safe. Such a grand estate your Mr. Darcy has! I suppose he is off somewhere now attending to some important matter. Keeping track of all his money must occupy much of his time.”
“Mr. Darcy does manage to fit other pursuits into his schedule on occasion.” Such as clandestine excursions to Newcastle and Gloucestershire. Elizabeth hoped more fervently than ever that he would return soon. She did not feel herself equal to single-handedly entertaining both her mother and Lady Catherine at once.
“Papa, did you happen to visit Jane en route?” The Bingleys had recently quit Netherfield for their new estate in Staffordshire. Elizabeth anticipated with great pleasure a visit to her sister as soon as she was at liberty to travel once more.
“There, Mr. Bennet—see? Lizzy also thinks it would have been a good scheme. I long to see Jane’s new home, Lizzy, but your father insisted we allow her more time to establish her household. And then Jane herself said she was departing within a fortnight to come here for your lying-in. But that cannot be correct—it is a full two weeks earlier than you advised me to arrive.”
In sharing the estimated dates of her confinement, Elizabeth might have created a slight—and, of course, entirely unintentional—discrepancy between the information her sister and mother received. As if to reprove her, the baby awoke and practiced its pugilistic skills on the inside of her ribs, causing sharp pains that she was hard-pressed to conceal from her guests. Perhaps she carried a boy after all.
“Jane brings Nicholas, and wished to allow additional time to get set
tled at Pemberley before the arrival of a new cousin put the nursery at sixes and sevens.”
“If only Lydia would come, also. Newcastle is not so very far.” Mrs. Bennet addressed Lady Catherine. “My youngest daughter’s husband is in the regulars, and his regiment has been stationed there over a twelvemonth. I miss her excessively, though she keeps so busy with her husband and new friends that I am certain she scarcely has time to give her mother a thought. She is so popular among the other officers’ wives. Everybody adores her. What a wonderful thing it is to be young and carefree! I quite envy her sometimes.”
Lady Catherine made not the slightest effort to disguise her contempt. She turned to Elizabeth. “Mrs. Darcy, I trust Mrs. Wickham will make no reappearance at Pemberley in the near future?”
Dear heaven, she hoped not. Adding Lydia to this delightful family assembly might send Elizabeth seeking asylum in her bedchamber for the remainder of her pregnancy. Already, Dr. Severn’s order of bed rest held increased appeal.
“She has conveyed no such intention to me,” she replied.
“Lizzy, why do you not write and invite her? Only think how merry we would be! Lydia is such a cheerful creature. Her companionship would divert us all. Mr. Wickham could bring her—did he not grow up at Pemberley? I am sure he would love to visit.”
“Heaven and earth!” Lady Catherine exclaimed. “Have you no sense at all?”
Mrs. Bennet appeared confused and injured. “I—forgive me, your ladyship, if I somehow gave offense. I only meant that—”
“Mr. Wickham, invited to Pemberley? Could its woods be polluted any further?”
Though Mrs. Bennet’s gabble often provoked impatience in Elizabeth, she could not countenance Lady Catherine so abusing her mother. “I daresay a home as venerable as Pemberley can survive the unbecoming conduct of any relations of mine—or of my husband’s.”
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