North by Northanger

by Mr. ; Mrs. Darcy Mystery; Carrie Bebris

  “She did not appear at all.” Had a nocturnal rendezvous with her husband led to Lydia’s late rising? Her sister had never been one to welcome the day at an early hour. “I dislike contemplating Lydia practicing such deceit upon me. If we are casting a suspicious eye toward our relations, I would much rather blame your aunt.”

  “You believe my aunt conspires with Frederick Tilney’s mistress?”

  “No, with Mr. Wickham—he is such a favorite of hers.” ROSE met with rejection. “I suggest that Mrs. Stanford and company might not be our culprits at all. I caught Lady Catherine prowling in my dressing room during your absence, and for a time I was unable to locate Helen Tilney’s letters. Perhaps her ladyship borrowed the letters and drew her own conclusions from them. She may speculate that your mother hid her statuette with the others. Or she might want all the ivories for herself.”

  “Even if my aunt has taken up espionage, I doubt she has ever held a shovel in her life.”

  “No, but that would not prevent her from instructing someone else in its use. She has servants here at her command.” She pushed the box away, having exhausted her four-letter vocabulary at present, and asked the question that weighed most heavily on her mind. “The culprit’s identity aside, was he successful? Did he find the Northanger ivories?”

  “If he did, he is long gone. If he did not”—an uneasy expression crossed Darcy’s face—”he may yet lurk about Pemberley.”

  “Still trying to find the ivories before we do.” She became more hopeful. Perhaps the Northanger ivories had not slipped through their grasp after all. But if Helen Tilney had not buried them beneath the marigolds, where had she hidden them? The crib quilt came to mind again. Mrs. Tilney could not have sewn the ivories themselves into it—they were too large to go unnoticed—but had she secreted within the stitches some key to their whereabouts?

  “I should like to take a closer look at the quilt Helen Tilney made,” she said.

  They hid the strongbox in a secure location and went to the nursery. All was prepared for the imminently anticipated new Darcy, and Elizabeth realized that she had very little time remaining in which to contemplate such matters as ivories and letter locks. Tiny caps and tinier fingers, hungry cries and toothless smiles would soon consume her attention. She still contemplated the birth itself with apprehension, but the discovery of Lady Anne’s strongbox lent her courage. Surely they would find a way to open it and access the Madonna and Child statuette before she was brought to bed. If they were also to solve the Northanger puzzle and clear the Darcy name before the birth, however, they would have to do so quickly.

  She looked toward the windows for the quilt, but it no longer hung between them. It was on the floor.

  Torn into countless pieces.

  Thirty-four

  Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.

  —Pride and Prejudice

  T he quilt was mutilated, the blocks torn apart, the top ripped from its backing. Whoever had visited destruction upon it had done a thorough job of profaning a gift whose stitches had bound together the fabric of two women’s lives. And an equally effective job of robbing the quilt of any clue it might have held.

  The sight sickened Elizabeth. Her stomach weakened; a low pain began in her back and radiated to her abdomen. She sank into a nearby rocking chair.

  Darcy observed her with concern. “Has your leg fallen numb again?”

  She shook her head. “I shall be fine in a moment.” She looked at him in astonishment. “Who—”

  “I do not know, but I intend to find out. Unlike the garden vandalism, this offense must have been committed by someone within the house, and no one will rest tonight until my questions have been answered.”

  When she recovered from the shock, Darcy escorted her back to her dressing room. He ordered her some tea and sat with her awhile after Jenny brought it. Then he departed to begin his interrogation.

  Elizabeth tried to distract herself by returning to the strongbox and its letter lock, but it could not hold her attention. She found herself repeating failed combinations as the image of Helen Tilney’s destroyed handiwork continually intruded into her thoughts. The remains of the lovingly created baby quilt kept calling to mind another innocent victim of violence, the child she had read about yesterday in the Prioress’s Tale. She shuddered again as she had upon reading it—what a dark story to be told by a character who wore a brooch inscribed with “Love conquers all.” Or whatever the Latin words were that Georgiana had read aloud.

  She paused. I have taken the precaution of putting a lock on the casket. . . . I think Madame Eglentyne would approve.

  She scooped up the lockbox.

  The large tome of Chaucer’s complete works remained in her morning room. She found the chamber blessedly free of Lady Catherine, her mother, or anyone else who might have considered herself at liberty to make use of it. The book lay where she had left it, its massive weight apparently having rendered it immune from the susceptibility of other written material at Pemberley to disappear and reappear at unpredictable intervals. She set Lady Anne’s box on the desk, went to the book, and rapidly flipped pages until she found what she sought.

  And theron heng a brooch of gold ful sheene, on which ther was first write a crowned A, and after Amor vincit omnia.

  She rotated the rings of the lock. A-M-O-R.

  It opened.

  Her heart pounding, she removed the lock from the hasp and lifted the lid. Velvet cushions surrounded a small cylindrical object covered in a soiled, tattered scrap of fabric. She held her breath as she reached inside and carefully lifted the treasure from its cradle. Slowly, she unwrapped the fragile mantle to reveal the Madonna and Child.

  She released her breath. The statuette was exquisite, reflecting at once its medieval origins and an ageless veneration for its subject. The ivory captured the Christ child as a boy of perhaps two, offering Mary an apple as she held him. Her face reflected serenity Elizabeth wished she could borrow, and indeed, gazing upon the figurine, she felt a sense of calm envelop her.

  Until a jarring voice shattered it.

  “I see you have recovered my statue for me.”

  She turned so quickly that she almost dropped the ivory. Not trusting herself to keep a firm grasp on the statuette, she set it back in the cushioned box. She then walked toward Lady Catherine so that she blocked Darcy’s aunt from the prize.

  “It is not your ivory. Your mother gave it to Lady Anne, who in turn passed it to me.”

  “Insolent, grasping upstart! How dare you claim my mother’s heirloom as your own? Your pretension exceeds all bounds of tolerance.”

  “And your selfishness surpasses even that of which I had thought you capable.”

  “Hand over my ivory or I shall take it for myself.”

  Elizabeth had done with her ladyship’s riding roughshod over everyone in her path. Physical discomfort and the day’s events had also rendered her cross in general. Women with swollen ankles should not be provoked.

  “Attempt to seize it, and I shall have you arrested for theft.”

  Lady Catherine tried to circumvent her, but Elizabeth advanced, her enlarged abdomen leading the charge. Her ladyship retreated, backing through the room’s main doorway and into the chamber beyond. Apparently, having achieved the size of a house held its advantages.

  Darcy’s aunt regarded her icily. “You shall regret this, Mrs. Darcy.”

  A noise behind Elizabeth momentarily drew her attention. In the pier glass beyond Lady Catherine, she saw Jenny enter the morning room to perform her daily duties. Elizabeth returned her gaze to Darcy’s aunt and lowered her voice.

  “I doubt it.”

  Her ladyship’s own gaze swept over Elizabeth derisively. “I thank heaven my sister did not live to see what an unworthy creature has assumed her place at Pemberley. She would despise you.”

  “I doubt that, too.”

  Lady Catherine
raised her chin, cast a final, dismissive glance at Elizabeth, and marched off. Elizabeth watched her go until she disappeared from view. Then she went back into the morning room to retrieve the statuette.

  Jenny was gone.

  So was the ivory.

  Thirty-five

  This seems to me the best plan, and the maid will be most conveniently near.

  —Jane Austen, letter to Cassandra

  E lizabeth peered into the box twice—thrice—as if repeatedly looking where the ivory ought to have been would make it reappear. She picked up the scrap of cloth that still lay in the bottom and stared at it. Then she turned in a slow circle, her gaze ricocheting around the room as her bewildered mind struggled to absorb the obvious. Jenny had stolen the ivory.

  Jenny, cheerful Jenny.

  Deceitful Jenny.

  If Elizabeth had felt ill upon discovering the quilt, that sensation was nothing compared to the wave that passed through her now. Her insides turned to water. The pain in her lower back returned, spreading forward into her belly and upper legs. She shakily lowered herself into a chair, but sitting down did not help.

  Her thoughts bounced from her discomfort to Jenny’s betrayal and back. Had Jenny merely happened upon the statuette and taken advantage of the opportunity to steal it? Or had she been scheming against Elizabeth and Darcy since her arrival? Was Jenny responsible for the disappearance of other items? The destruction of the quilt? How closely was she working with the Northanger Abbey imposters?

  Her pain eased but discomfort remained. She recalled with alarm Lucy and Graham’s mysterious “illness” at Northanger, and that it had arisen after eating a meal the conspirators gave them. Jenny had served her tea earlier. Dear Lord—had she put something in it?

  She felt steady enough to rise and pull the bell. Fear for the baby overwhelmed her. Dr. Severn was expected today but had not arrived. She needed help.

  She asked the answering servant to summon Mrs. Godwin posthaste, and to locate both Darcy and Mrs. Reynolds for her. As she waited, she clutched the scrap of cloth that she still held in her hand and prayed for her child and herself.

  By the time Darcy arrived, she was feeling better. The pain had subsided and she had gained control of her panic. He immediately read in her face, however, that all was not well.

  “Tell me,” he said.

  The details came out in a rush. “I opened the lock—Lady Catherine found me—While we were arguing, Jenny stole the ivory. Now I feel ill—I fear she may have adulterated my tea.”

  Darcy turned white. “Dr. Severn—”

  “Has not arrived yet. I have summoned Mrs. Godwin.”

  He nodded, still trying to digest all she had told him. “Describe what you mean by ‘ill.’ ”

  “Similar to what I experienced in the nursery. I am presently much improved over what I was a few minutes ago.”

  “How did the tea taste?”

  “Strong. But not unusual.”

  “Let us hope Jenny’s treachery ends with theft.”

  Mrs. Reynolds entered. “Mrs. Godwin has been sent for,” she reported.

  Darcy informed her that both Mrs. Godwin and Dr. Severn were to attend Elizabeth in her bedchamber directly they arrived. He also issued instructions, which he would repeat to the steward, for the apprehension of Jenny. The housekeeper departed to carry out his orders.

  He had delivered the commands coolly, but when he turned to her and said, “Let us get you to bed,” she could hear strain in his voice. And when he touched her, his hands betrayed a slight tremor.

  Despite her assertions that she possessed sufficient strength to walk—not to mention sufficient girth to injure him—he insisted on carrying her to their bedchamber. Lucy helped her undress while he spoke to Mr. Clarke, and he returned just as she settled into bed. He kissed her forehead and held her hand and said all the things people say when assuring a loved one she will be fine while inwardly fearing she will not.

  He studied her intently “How do you feel now?”

  She did not want to admit it, even to herself, but she was starting to feel worse again. Just then Mrs. Godwin arrived.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Darcy. How are you today?”

  “Unwell.” And afraid.

  Mrs. Godwin seemed to grasp her unvoiced reply along with the spoken. She sat on the edge of the bed and took one of Elizabeth’s hands. The other, which yet held the scrap of cloth from Lady Anne’s box, Darcy retained.

  She explained her symptoms and the possibility that an unknown substance slipped into her tea might be its cause. Just as she finished, the pain began again. Mrs. Godwin asked her several questions about its location and intensity, listening closely to her replies and putting her hand on Elizabeth’s abdomen. Though the ache was stronger this time than last, with Mrs. Godwin present she was not as frightened as before.

  When the pain subsided again, Mrs. Godwin turned to Darcy.

  “Sir, find this Jenny to settle any doubt. But I do not believe your wife has been poisoned.” She looked at Elizabeth and smiled. “My dear, you are in labor.”

  Thirty-six

  He cannot be the instigator of the three villains in horsemen’s great coats, by whom she will hereafter be forced into a travelling-chaise and four, which will drive off with incredible speed.

  —Northanger Abbey

  W ith Elizabeth in Mrs. Godwin’s care for the present, Darcy went in pursuit of more information about Jenny. His foremost concern was whether she had been found, but he also intended to learn everything Mrs. Reynolds could tell him about her, from her work habits to her parish of origin.

  He berated himself for his blindness. He should have dismissed her the day he discovered her in the library with Wickham. Now God only knew the extremes to which her perfidy reached. They had not anticipated the child’s arrival for another fortnight at least. He prayed Mrs. Godwin’s diagnosis was accurate, that it was merely labor that incapacitated Elizabeth, with no complications caused by malice.

  He rarely went belowstairs, but he wanted to speak to Mrs. Reynolds without delay, and also to search Jenny’s room. He hoped to determine as much as he could as quickly as he could, so that he might return to Elizabeth. Mrs. Godwin had said that her pains were infrequent enough that the birth was still many hours off. He grew impatient for Dr. Severn’s arrival. He would not be easy until the entire ordeal was over, but his anxiety would lessen with the physician in the house.

  He found Mrs. Reynolds in the main servants’ hall, and they moved to a spot just inside the exterior door where they could talk without danger of being overheard. Yes, Mr. Clarke had come and coordinated efforts with her. No, Jenny had not been found yet. Yes, the search was widespread but discreet. No, they did not believe she had escaped the house. Yes, several men swept the park even now.

  As he talked to the housekeeper, an unfamiliar chaise and four stopped at the servants’ entrance. He watched to see who emerged, but no one did. Instead, a thin figure darted toward the carriage from the hedges. Jenny.

  He ran outside, reaching her just as she was about to climb into the carriage door. He grabbed her shoulders and pulled her away from the vehicle, but not before she managed to thrust a small object to one of the passengers within. He looked into the gentleman’s face.

  “Wickham!”

  Panic flashed across Wickham’s countenance. The driver slapped the horses, and the carriage sped off. Gripping Jenny tightly by the shoulders, Darcy tried to get a glimpse of the other passenger, but he—or she—wore a hooded cloak that obscured the face.

  A servant began closing Pemberley’s gate. But the vehicle barreled through and continued at breakneck speed out of the park.

  Impulse urged him to pursue—catching the conspirators meant clearing his name. But Elizabeth needed him within. And as far as his wife was concerned, he held the most important villain in his grasp.

  Once the carriage disappeared from view, Jenny ceased struggling. He turned her around to look into her face. He
r eyes were wide with fright.

  He fought to maintain his calm, to remain composed when he wanted to shout. “Answer my questions truthfully and it will go easier for you.”

  She nodded shakily.

  “Did you adulterate Mrs. Darcy’s tea this afternoon?”

  She swallowed. “No—no, sir.”

  He studied her so intensely for signs of prevarication that she looked as if his gaze alone might knock her down. “Did you today, or at any time, administer anything to her without her knowledge? Any substance that could harm her or make her ill?”

  “No, sir—nothing like that!”

  “Has anyone else done so?”

  “No! At least, not that anybody told me about. No one wants to hurt Mrs. Darcy.”

  “God help you if you are lying to me.”

  Her shoulders trembled. “I swear to you, I am not.”

  She appeared so rattled that he tended to believe her. Though she might practice duplicity when nobody watched, he doubted she could gather enough composure at present to deliver a falsehood convincingly. He relaxed his grip, but not his stance or expression.

  “What did you give Mr. Wickham just now?”

  “A statuette.”

  “That you stole from Pemberley.”

  “I’m sorry, sir. Truly—”

  “Sorry? Do you know the value of that ivory? How long it has been in my family?”

  “Please don’t send me to gaol, sir!” She began to cry. “My sisters and I—we’ve got no one since our father died, and they said they would pay me well. All I had to do was keep my ears open and borrow a few things from time to time.”

  Gaol was the least of the evils she faced. Though the statuette’s history rendered it priceless to him and Elizabeth, its monetary worth made its theft a transport or hanging offense for Jenny.