North by Northanger m&mdm-3

by Carrie Bebris

  “Gaol?” Elizabeth exclaimed.

  “On what grounds?” Darcy asked. “You have no evidence, only your own speculation.”

  “And the letter.”

  “A letter authored by someone too cowardly to sign his name.”

  “Darcy.” Elizabeth had moved beside him and now touched his arm. “We can resolve this very easily. Let Mr. Chase search our things. We have nothing to hide.”

  Submitting to such an affront went against every natural impulse. But she was right — they had nothing to hide, and allowing Mr. Chase to determine that for himself was a more expedient way to acquit themselves of his ridiculous accusations than engaging in prolonged argument.

  “Very well,” he said stiffly.

  A thorough examination of every trunk, case, and compartment — right down to Elizabeth’s reticule and his coat pockets — commenced. Darcy observed in silent fury, thankful that Elizabeth had packed no diamonds of her own to confuse the search. Just as the offensive exploration seemed at an end, Mr. Chase’s gaze came to rest on the umbrella stand, where Darcy’s walking stick rested.

  The constable withdrew it from the stand. Darcy resented the sight of him holding the cane.

  “This is yours, I presume?”

  “It is.”

  He inspected the grip, then twisted the cinquefoil band. To Darcy’s astonishment, the cane separated into two pieces.

  With a smug glance at Darcy, Mr. Chase set aside the grip, inserted two fingers into the shaft, and withdrew a long, narrow bundle wrapped in cloth. He set the shaft on the table beside the grip and, as Darcy watched in dread, unfolded the muslin.

  “Well, now, Mr. Darcy.”

  The constable held up Mrs. Tilney’s diamond necklace. Sunlight bounced off its many facets, splaying the walls with damning brilliance.

  “What have we here?”

  Ten

  My hearing nothing of you makes me apprehensive that you, your fellow travellers and all your effects, might be seized by the bailiffs...

  — Jane Austen, letter to Cassandra

  Darcy stared at the two pieces of the cane in disbelief. He had owned the walking stick for a decade. How could he never have noticed that it held a hidden compartment?

  The still more obvious question — how the diamond necklace, bracelet, and eardrops had come to be inside it — he could not begin to contemplate.

  Mr. Chase sent a servant to fetch the magistrate, who arrived quite put out that his hunting party had been disrupted. But a case of this magnitude, with defendants of the Darcys’ social status, warranted immediate attention. Mr. Melbourne would determine whether sufficient evidence existed to commit Darcy and Elizabeth to gaol pending trial at the next assizes.

  The magistrate held the proceedings in the common room of the Golden Crown before an audience of local tradesmen, merchants, and yeomen.

  “Could we not discuss this matter in private?” Darcy said.

  “Justice is a matter of public interest, Mr. Darcy,” the magistrate responded. “I conduct all my hearings in full view of His Majesty’s lawabiding subjects.”

  Though called in from the hunt to perform his duties this afternoon, Mr. Melbourne had taken meticulous care with his person before arriving at the Golden Crown. His clothes looked so freshly donned and his dark hair so neatly combed that one could scarcely believe he had traveled to the inn on horseback. Apparently, he ran his legal proceedings in the same exacting manner he applied to his appearance. Darcy actually found a degree of reassurance in this; he would rather deal with a justice of the peace who regarded his responsibilities seriously than one who approached them so sloppily as to not deserve the office.

  “Mr. Chase, present the evidence against the Darcys,” said Mr. Melbourne.

  The constable strutted forward. “Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy and his wife have committed theft against Captain Frederick Tilney of Northanger Abbey. After passing Tuesday night as guests in his home, they repaid his hospitality by stealing a set of diamonds from his late mother’s chamber. I found the couple right here in this inn, with the diamonds in their possession.”

  Darcy rose. “Mr. Melbourne, we—”

  “I shall inform you when it is your turn to speak, Mr. Darcy.”

  Mr. Melbourne asked to see the diamonds, and Mr. Chase readily produced them. The sight of the jewels raised a murmur in the crowd, which seemed to grow by the minute. Apparently, the arrest of a gentleman and his wife formed the most interesting event the village had seen in some time.

  “They secreted them in a cane with a hidden compartment,” the constable said as he handed the cane to Mr. Melbourne for inspection. “See here? The grip twists off like this. Someone less observant would have missed it altogether, but I figured it out.” His chest swelled. “Mr. and Mrs. Darcy took the diamonds, hid them in the cane, and smuggled them out of the house.”

  The magistrate examined the pieces, then regarded Darcy coldly. “Is this true?”

  “It is not, sir. My wife and I are victims of deceit. I assure you, we did not steal those diamonds.” Darcy longed to inspect the cane himself. Mr. Chase had not allowed him to handle it since the diamonds were discovered.

  “Do you admit to owning this walking stick?”

  “I do, but I had no notion of its harboring a hidden compartment.” He gestured toward the cane. “Might I?”

  Mr. Melbourne considered a moment, then nodded his consent.

  Darcy took up the two pieces. He tilted the opening of the shaft toward the light and determined that the hollow extended about twelve inches. Threads at the top and in the cinquefoil band enabled the shaft to screw into the grip. He fitted these together; when joined, they formed a smooth line that betrayed no evidence of the secret compartment within. He weighed the cane across his hands, then gripped it by the head. It felt familiar in his palm. How could he not have known?

  He traced his finger along the length of the cane. And found his answer.

  The slight imperfection in the wood was not there. The grain ran evenly down to the tip.

  “This walking stick is not mine,” he declared.

  “Not two minutes ago you identified it as yours.”

  “It appears very much like mine — resembles it so closely, in fact, that I carried it out of Northanger Abbey and into this inn without realizing the difference. But my cane has a slight imperfection in the wood about halfway down its length, a widening of the grain barely noticeable unless one seeks it. This cane displays no such mark.”

  “How very convenient.” Mr. Melbourne’s countenance indicated that he did not believe a syllable Darcy had just uttered.

  Darcy was not accustomed to having his word doubted. “My wife can attest to the marking on my cane.”

  “As your wife is also implicated in the theft, her confirmation means little. Further, you have now just admitted that you left Northanger with this cane, and the diamonds it contained, in your possession. If the cane does not belong to you, then you have stolen it, too.”

  “This is absurd! We did not steal the diamonds, and we did not put them in this cane.”

  “Then how do you account for Mr. Chase’s having found them in your custody?”

  “Someone else must have placed them in the walking stick.”

  “Someone else gave you these diamonds, and neglected to inform you of it? That is preposterous.”

  “Not nearly as preposterous as the notion that we stole them. I am a gentleman. I own an estate in Derbyshire larger than Northanger Abbey. If I wanted diamonds, I would purchase them myself.”

  “I have been practicing law and maintaining order in this county a long time, Mr. Darcy, and if there is one thing I have learned about human nature, it is that people often do not act according to sense. You are not the first gentleman I have encountered who stole something he could well afford to buy. Nor does England lack gentlemen who, through mismanagement or dissipation, have exhausted their own coffers and might find themselves unable to resist the temptation
of an easy opportunity to refill them.”

  “I am neither of those sorts of gentlemen. I did not steal anything.”

  “I have a hollow cane and a handful of diamonds that suggest you did.”

  Darcy took a deep breath, attempting to cool his ire. He was beginning to wish that Mr. Melbourne were one of those more careless magistrates after all. Continuing the current line of argument would prove futile; he needed another tactic.

  He wished he knew who had written the anonymous letter. Should he not have an opportunity to face his accuser? From the little Mr. Chase had revealed, the note must have come from someone at Northanger. A servant — the housekeeper, perhaps? Surely if Captain Tilney himself had thought they were departing his home with the family jewels, he would have stopped them. Or at least signed his name to the letter.

  “Mr. Melbourne, does not a crime require a victim? If Mrs. Tilney once owned these diamonds, they now belong to her son. Let us go to Northanger Abbey and talk to the captain. Doubtless, he will assure you that this is all an enormous error.”

  The magistrate pondered the proposal. “All right,” he said finally. “The jewels must be returned anyway. I might as well deliver them myself and allow you to accompany me.”

  “Thank you, sir—”

  “Do not thank me yet. The day is now too far gone for us to journey all the way to Northanger and back before dark. We shall pursue this errand tomorrow morning. Until then, I must commit you both to gaol.”

  Darcy was filled with mortification and outrage. A member of the Darcy family passing a single night in gaol was inconceivable. His name would be tarnished, his reputation damaged. Physical discomfort he could bear with fortitude, but the injury to his honor would be a heavy blow to suffer. That Elizabeth, in her condition, could not possibly be subjected to the environment of gaol was beyond question.

  “Might you consider permitting us to stay here at the inn? You have my word that we will not attempt escape, nor even leave our room.”

  “You have just been caught with stolen diamonds in your possession. Why should I trust your word?”

  “I am a gentleman.”

  “As I just explained, Mr. Darcy, your status as a gentleman means little. Perhaps the magistrates in Derbyshire treat persons of means more leniently, but in my jurisdiction the law applies equally to all individuals. In fact, as a gentleman myself, I hold those of our status to a higher standard, and condemn the actions of any gentleman who would taint our collective honor through conduct unbecoming. Ask those gathered here about the fate of Mr. Oliver Smyth, known in these parts as the ‘gentleman bandit.’ ”

  “Swung from a tree!” someone cried.

  “I am no bandit,” Darcy declared. “Do not treat me as one.”

  “You stand accused of theft — a hanging offense for an item as valuable as these diamonds. Until this matter is resolved, you and your wife shall be treated like any other criminals.”

  Another murmur swept through the crowd.

  Darcy looked at Elizabeth. Her face was filled with anxiety. The thought of her sharing this shame was insupportable. He could not — would not — allow that to happen.

  “I will go with you willingly, but for mercy’s sake, please do not subject my wife to incarceration.”

  “If gentlemen do not enjoy exemption from the law, neither do ladies.”

  “Yes, but... a private word, please, Mr. Melbourne?”

  “What is it?”

  Darcy approached the table and leaned forward. “Mrs. Darcy is in a delicate state of health,” he said in a voice audible only to the magistrate.

  “You ought to have considered that before breaking the law.”

  “If anything happened to her or the child while in gaol, would you want that on your conscience?”

  Mr. Melbourne folded his arms across his chest and studied Elizabeth for several long moments. Finally, he said, “Mrs. Darcy, was there ever a time when your husband was in Mrs. Tilney’s chamber alone — without you?”

  Darcy heard the question with relief and gratitude. The magistrate was offering Elizabeth a way out. But to accept it, she would have to cast even more suspicion on him.

  She looked not at Mr. Melbourne, but at Darcy. He could read the reluctance in her eyes. She would not pronounce a word that might betray him.

  “Speak the truth, Elizabeth.”

  She hesitated. He willed her compliance with his steady gaze. I shall be all right. Speak the truth.

  She swallowed. “Just before we left Northanger Abbey, my husband went to the apartment alone to ascertain whether the servants had finished packing our trunks. He was gone but a few minutes—”

  “Did he have this walking stick with him when he went?”

  Her face filled with distress. “Yes.”

  “Then it is possible that Mr. Darcy committed this crime without your knowledge?”

  “It is impossible that my husband committed any crime,” she said fiercely. “He is the most honorable man I have ever known.”

  “An admirable display of loyalty, Mrs. Darcy.”

  Mr. Melbourne leaned back in his chair, his gaze shifting between Elizabeth and Darcy several times as he deliberated. Darcy, meanwhile, strove to mask his own apprehension. So long as Elizabeth was spared, he could tolerate anything.

  At last, the magistrate reached a decision. “Mrs. Darcy, your statement has sufficiently convinced me that your husband is the principal perpetrator of this plot. You may stay here under guard tonight. Mr. Darcy, the constable will escort you to gaol.”

  At the word “gaol,” Elizabeth released a soft cry.

  The eager Mr. Chase stepped forward. Darcy would go willingly, as promised. But first he needed to remove the stricken look from Elizabeth’s face. “Might I have a few words alone with my wife?” he asked Mr. Melbourne.

  “I suppose so. A few brief words.”

  Darcy went to Elizabeth and took both her hands in his. Despite the stuffiness of the crowded room, her hands were cold and betrayed a slight tremble. He held them tightly as he looked into dark brown eyes that had never before reflected such turmoil.

  “Darcy, I—”

  “Hush. I would not have had you say anything else. I will be fine, and this is one instance in which I do not desire your company.”

  “But gaol!”

  “My first concern is for you and our child. Knowing you are safe, I can endure a night of the gaoler’s hospitality until this matter is sorted out.” He longed to touch her face, to smooth away the anxiety that furrowed her brow. But consciousness of their audience forced him to settle for pressing her hands in reassurance.

  “Shall I contact Mr. Harper?” she asked.

  “Mr. Harper cannot be reached in France, let alone assist us, between now and tomorrow morning — when our return to Northanger will resolve this affair.”

  If it did not, he would summon Mr. Harper posthaste.

  Darcy prayed events would not come to that. He wanted no one else to learn of this embarrassment. Though he trusted his solicitor implicitly, the haut ton was a gossiping beast that fed on the adversity of others. Somehow the news would leak, and Mr. and Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy would become the topic du jour in every club, parlor, and assembly room of the Polite World. He could not bear the thought of his name being bandied about London, of other people — persons with whom he might not even be acquainted, who had no interest in his welfare — using his misfortune to increase their own social capital by trumping their listeners with the most dramatic on dit.

  How Darcy now regretted sending his solicitor abroad! If only, as his aunt had requested, he had personally undertaken the errand of ensuring his cousin Roger did not sully the family reputation.

  Instead, he had stayed behind to ruin it himself.

  The following day dawned brighter than any day so begun had a right. Darcy watched the sun rise through the small window of his cramped room in Mr. Slattery’s house. Once at the county gaol, Darcy’s status as a gentleman had sp
ared him from confinement with the common criminals, but he’d had to pay generously for the privilege of being accommodated with the gaoler himself. Given the vulgar, dirty conditions in which Mr. Slattery lived, Darcy had been only slightly better off.

  He had slept little, his mind too active to permit rest. He had entered the gaol bewildered, the circumstances in which he found himself too far removed from his realm of experience to be immediately comprehended in their entirety. But now having had an opportunity to fully contemplate recent events, he emerged from his imprisonment even more outraged than he had entered it.

  Outraged, and wary. This was no mere misunderstanding. Someone had gone to considerable trouble to make him appear guilty of theft, to damage his reputation in society. The charges themselves he did not fear; he had enough influential connections who would believe in his innocence that an acquittal was almost assured. But the cost would be dear. While the faith of his most intimate acquaintances might remain steadfast, all others who heard of the affair would forever suspect his integrity.

  Yes, someone worked against him, for reasons mysterious and inconceivable. And Darcy had concluded that his attacker could be none other than Captain Frederick Tilney.

  He kept this deduction to himself as the gaoler escorted him to Mr. Melbourne’s waiting carriage. The magistrate had with him the condemning walking stick, and Darcy wondered how and when such a close replica had been crafted. How could Captain Tilney have known Darcy’s own cane so particularly?

  They reached the inn without incident or delay. Elizabeth opened the chamber door herself, and the sight of her did more to counter the indignity and discomfort of his ordeal than any concession his money had been able to procure from the gaoler.

  Her gaze anxiously assessed him. “You appear unaltered,” she said.

  “Indeed, I am entirely unchanged.” Right down to his clothing.

  She took his hands and pulled him inside, where Mr. Melbourne had granted him permission to don fresh attire while the constable and Elizabeth’s guards waited in the corridor. As soon as the door closed, she was in his arms.