“Mr. Darcy?” Lady Catherine called toward the closed bedchamber door. “Do you hear the way your wife is speaking to me?”
“My husband does not display good humor when ill. Disturb his rest and he will speak to you even more strongly than I.”
“Not so long as he requires my cooperation in a certain legal matter. You would do well to remember that yourself.”
“Your standing surety for us does not grant you the privilege of inserting yourself into any of our other affairs.”
“Does it not?”
Elizabeth was so angry that she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. She went to the hall door and flung it open. “Kindly spare us both the unpleasantness of my having to ask you to leave.”
Her ladyship gathered her indignation about her like a mantle and departed. Elizabeth left the door open, not trusting herself to close it without slamming it shut. Lady Catherine’s arrogance needled her under the best of circumstances, but Darcy’s aunt had become positively insufferable at a time when Elizabeth’s ability to tolerate her shrank in direct proportion to the size of her increasing belly.
This latest outrage, however, was beyond anything she could have anticipated. Though she had harbored suspicions about Lady Catherine when Anne’s letter had disappeared, Darcy’s disbelief in his aunt’s capacity for such invasive conduct — combined with the letter’s rediscovery and the subsequent doubts it had raised regarding Elizabeth’s own perceptions — had persuaded her that in her pursuit of the ivory Lady Catherine would at least adhere to basic standards of decorum. Such as observing the implicit rule of hospitality that guests respect the privacy and possessions of their hosts.
But apparently, Lady Catherine’s practice of minding everyone else’s business in addition to her own had been tolerated by so many for so long that the transition to physical intrusion had been an easy step. How long had she been in the room before Elizabeth caught her disturbing the trunk, and with what else had she meddled?
Elizabeth went to the escritoire and unlocked the drop front. Lady Anne’s letter to her lay where she had left it, as did the mysterious key that had fallen from the desk in the morning room — and whose purpose she still had not determined. However, the most critical letters of the Tilney correspondence, which she thought she remembered transferring to the escritoire for greater security, were no longer at hand. Had she forgotten to move them? She checked the trunk, but they were not there, either. Had Lady Catherine taken them, or had Elizabeth simply misplaced something yet again?
After several more minutes of additional frustrated searching, she turned her back on the matter and headed toward the window. She wanted to more closely examine the lily’s missing flower. But the moment she took a step, her right leg buckled under her.
She managed to grab the back of the escritoire chair and prevent herself from falling. Her leg had gone numb. She fought panic as she gripped the chair tightly to support herself.
“Elizabeth?”
Georgiana paused but a second in the open doorway before hurrying toward her. “Elizabeth, are you unwell?”
“I cannot feel my leg.”
“Here, lean upon me.” Georgiana offered her shoulder and assisted Elizabeth into the chair.
Elizabeth sank into the seat and stretched out her leg. Through her dressing gown, she rubbed the limb. Although the nerves of her fingers acknowledged her touch, those in her leg were utterly insensate.
Georgiana regarded her with alarm. “Did you injure yourself?”
She shook her head. “I was simply standing here. When I moved and put my weight upon the leg, ’twas as if I had no limb at all.”
“We must send for Mr. Monroe.”
Elizabeth offered no protest, only wondered how quickly the Lambton apothecary could arrive. Georgiana pulled the bell to call Lucy, then issued the summons through her.
Lucy returned a few minutes later. “Mrs. Reynolds says we cannot send for Mr. Monroe,” she said. “We called for him yesterday when one of the scullery maids suffered a burn, and learned he is gone to Sussex this fortnight.”
Georgiana’s expression became fretful. “It will require hours to fetch the closest doctor. What shall we do?”
Elizabeth massaged her leg, willing sensation to return to it. The baby kicked — a message from her daughter that she was well, or a sign of distress? The anxiety she had struggled to suppress now threatened to overcome her. She wanted someone to explain what was happening, to reassure her that whatever infirmity claimed her leg did not also trouble the child. And she wanted that someone now.
“Send for Mrs. Godwin,” Elizabeth said.
Lucy departed again. Georgiana suggested that she ought to move to her bed while they waited for the midwife to arrive. Elizabeth almost agreed until she recalled that she still had to maintain the fiction of Darcy’s presence at Pemberley. Lucy knew of the deception — Darcy had been gone less than a day when Elizabeth realized that keeping her personal maid in ignorance was impossible — but she could hardly be attended by Mrs. Godwin, or waited upon by other servants, in the chamber where Darcy allegedly lay on his own sickbed. It would no doubt appear odd enough that he had not emerged from it to aid her.
Georgiana gently insisted. “My brother would not countenance your neglecting your own health or comfort for the sake of perpetuating this illusion.”
She supposed Darcy could just as easily not exist in one room as another. “Very well. Let us say that Darcy has elected to remove to a different chamber for my comfort. Graham can contrive the means to make it appear so.”
“My brother should be advised of this so he can return posthaste. He will regret not having been here when this occurred.” Georgiana appeared pensive. She worried her lower lip and studied Elizabeth’s face as if scrutinizing every pore.
Lucy returned with warm compresses and confirmation that a servant had been dispatched to Mrs. Godwin’s house. She and Georgiana assisted Elizabeth into bed, propping pillows behind her so that she could sit up. While Lucy busied herself with the compresses, Georgiana sought out Graham.
Elizabeth closed her eyes and tilted her head back against the pillows. Application of the compresses induced a slight tingling in her upper leg that slowly spread down the limb. The response relieved her in more ways than one.
Mrs. Godwin arrived. “Good morning, Mrs. Darcy. I understand you are having a bit of discomfort today?” The midwife brought with her an air of calm competence that was a remedy in itself.
“My right leg fell numb. I feared it might have something to do with the baby.”
“Well, let us have a look at you.” Mrs. Godwin removed the compresses and palpated the limb. “Have you experienced pain in your legs?”
“No, simply numbness.”
“How does the limb feel now?”
“It improves. Some sensation returns.”
The midwife nodded. “You have grown considerably since the harvest feast. Does the child move a great deal?”
“Oh, yes.”
She felt Elizabeth’s belly. A sharp kick met her palm, evoking a smile from Mrs. Godwin. “Apparently so.”
After a few minutes’ further examination and gentle queries, Mrs. Godwin asked Elizabeth to test her leg. The numbness had ceased, and she found she could stand on it steadily once more. Georgiana returned and looked as relieved by the sight of Elizabeth standing as Elizabeth herself felt.
“Numbness such as this, even sharp pain in the legs, I have seen with other mothers,” Mrs. Godwin said. “It came and went, and disappeared entirely after their babies were born. And the infants themselves were fine.”
“Should she refrain from standing?” Georgiana asked.
“Most mothers of my acquaintance do not have that luxury.” Mrs. Godwin said. “Though indulging in extra rest before the birth is never unwise. Use your own good judgment, Mrs. Darcy.”
After Mrs. Godwin departed, Georgiana insisted that Elizabeth return to bed for the remainder of the day. Elizab
eth resisted, certain that a day so spent would bore her into mental numbness.
“I shall remain here to keep you company,” Georgiana said.
“Today is your birthday. You can hardly wish to spend it in my bedchamber.”
“Better the bedchamber with you than the drawing room with my aunt.”
They struck a compromise: Elizabeth would submit to breakfast in bed and Georgiana’s fussing over her until it was time to dress for dinner, whereupon if her leg had given her no additional trouble she would pass the evening as usual.
She settled back against the pillows and arranged the blankets while Georgiana momentarily withdrew to the dressing room. Darcy’s sister reappeared carrying the Madonna lily, which she placed on the bedside table to cheer the room. Elizabeth welcomed the sight and scent of it. In a couple of hours she would return it to Mr. Flynn so that he could honor Lady Anne through his customary gesture.
“I also brought your book,” Georgiana said. “Would you like me to read to you? I can begin wherever you left off.”
Elizabeth regarded the book with confusion. She had read nothing but old letters for weeks, and the volume in Georgiana’s hands did not look at all familiar. ”I am not currently reading any book.”
“Oh? When I saw this in your dressing room, I presumed you presently enjoyed it.”
“Which book is it?”
“Geoffrey Chaucer.”
She had never read Chaucer, let alone this particular copy. Though she had become mildly curious about The Canterbury Tales after learning it had inspired George and Anne’s courtship, she had not yet got round to seeking it on the shelves of Pemberley’s library. “Where, exactly, did you find the book?”
“On your dressing table.”
When she had readied for bed last night, no book had been on her dressing table. How this one had found its way into her apartment, she could not fathom.
Georgiana regarded her uncertainly. “Shall I return it to the library?”
“No,” she said, thinking of the idle afternoon ahead. Lady Anne and George had found enough of interest in the Tales that they had engaged in a debate over them. Surely the poem could provide a few hours’ diversion today. “I believe I should like to become more familiar with Mr. Chaucer.”
Georgiana began reading. One by one, Elizabeth was introduced to the pilgrims making their way to Canterbury. The knight was introduced, the squire, the yeoman, the prioress. When Georgiana said the name Madame Eglentyne, her listener bade her slow down. George Darcy’s first letter concerning Anne had referred to Madame Eglentyne, the prioress.
Chaucer painted a vivid, if not entirely flattering, picture of Madame Eglentyne, who seemed to have suffered from a broad forehead and was not, as he put it, undergrown — a trait for which Elizabeth felt increased sympathy with each passing day. But he did compliment the prioress’s manners and morals, her ability to eat without dropping food all over herself, and a trinket on her arm: a gold brooch engraved with “ ‘a crowned A. And after,’ ” Georgiana continued reading, “ ‘Amor vincit omnia.’ ”
“Unfortunately, I do not know Latin,” Elizabeth said. “Will you translate for me?”
“ ‘Love conquers all.’ ”
Twenty-Seven
But I will not torment myself with conjectures and suppositions; facts shall satisfy me.
— Jane Austen, letter to Cassandra
Dorothy’s name was not Dorothy.
Her name was Mrs. Stanford, and she was the widow of Colonel Reginald Stanford. When the colonel made the ultimate sacrifice for king and country, Mrs. Stanford had continued his service to the military... in a manner of speaking.
By all reports, the merry widow had been prostrate, though not necessarily with grief, in the days following her husband’s demise. Apparently the companionship of the colonel’s fellow officers had assuaged the pain of her loss. Her name had been linked first with that of a lieutenant, then with a major, before she embarked on a longterm campaign with one officer in particular. A man of fortune, he had set her up in the style to which she’d always yearned to become accustomed, and they had carried on a relationship that lasted two years. Content to enjoy his company when he made himself available to her and his money when he did not, Mrs. Stanford lived as independent a life as any kept woman could. She was in Newcastle only when her paramour was; the rest of her time was divided between London and various spa towns.
Four days of investigation had turned up that much intelligence on the lady who had fled the Boar’s Head inn, but Darcy had been unable to locate the woman herself. Recently, her lover had also been killed in the line of duty, and upon his death she had quit Newcastle. Darcy’s sighting had marked the first time since October that anyone in town had caught a glimpse of her. Once outside the inn again, she had disappeared without a trace.
Darcy had never expected to encounter the mysterious Dorothy while in Newcastle. But he had been less astonished upon learning the name of her longtime paramour.
Captain Frederick Tilney.
Darcy now traveled to Northanger Abbey. He needed to apprise Henry Tilney of Dorothy’s identity and determine whether Henry possessed additional information about her. Much as he wished to avoid the trip to Gloucestershire for any number of reasons — the length of the journey, the increased separation from Elizabeth, not to mention the legal trouble that stalked him — this new intelligence required him to speak with Henry in person, and as expediently as possible. They needed to converse candidly about his brother’s mistress, and they needed to do so soon, before Mrs. Stanford’s trail grew colder.
He had dashed off a second brief note to Elizabeth before leaving Newcastle. He would not stop at Pemberley en route, refusing to delay by even a day the accomplishment of his mission. Better to travel straight to Northanger, complete his business, and return home to stay. He hoped that, meanwhile, Elizabeth could maintain her skillful management of Lady Catherine. He trusted his wife’s ability to capably handle his aunt, but with her lying-in looming ever closer, he regretted causing her the additional vexation his absence produced.
Apprehension crept over Darcy as he entered Gloucestershire. Instead of returning with the information he needed to clear his name, he instead arrived with more queries than answers, and without his legal chaperone. He resented the feeling of skulking into the county, of trying to avoid encountering Mr. Chase or the magistrate as if he were — well, as if he were some sort of criminal. Darcy was used to moving freely in the world, as any gentleman ought.
He reached Northanger and was immediately received by Henry Tilney, who greeted him with eager surprise and conducted him to the library.
“You must have learned something?” Tilney said.
“Dorothy’s identity. I saw her in Newcastle less than a se’nnight ago.”
“Newcastle? Frederick’s regiment is stationed there. Did you go to enquire after him?”
“I went on family business, in the course of which I happened to spy the woman who posed as your brother’s housekeeper. She fled, but my enquiries yielded intelligence of interest. Do you recognize the name Mrs. Stanford?”
“I am afraid I do not. Was she acquainted with Frederick?”
“Very well acquainted.”
Henry caught his meaning. “Well, now. That does add an interesting element to this business, does it not?”
“Were you aware that your brother maintained a mistress?”
“I suspect he kept a succession of them. Our father harped on him to marry and produce an heir, but Frederick never found a lady who could hold his interest long enough. So he dallied with a woman until one or the other of them grew bored, and then moved on to another. To his credit, at least he did not marry for convenience only to commit adultery for passion, as many gentlemen have done.”
“Some men conduct love affairs openly — indeed, it required little time in Newcastle to link Captain Tilney’s name with Mrs. Stanford’s. Did he ever mention his paramours to you or bring them to N
orthanger?”
Henry raised a brow. “Discuss his liaisons with his brother the minister? No. And if he ever brought any of the women to Northanger, I would not know, for he certainly did not introduce them to me. Perhaps, however, the servants might be of assistance.” Henry rang for the butler.
“If Mrs. Stanford had previously accompanied Captain Tilney here, that would explain her familiarity with the house the night Mrs. Darcy and I met her. She could pass herself off as the housekeeper — if not altogether creditably.”
“And that would explain the reports of the servants who took her for a woman they had seen here before.”
The butler arrived, and Mr. Tilney enquired whether a Mrs. Stanford had ever visited Northanger Abbey.
“Once, sir. She accompanied the captain about six months ago. She did not stay long — they had a falling-out one day and she departed in a fit. He never brought her back here.”
“How do you know they quarreled?”
“The argument occurred during dinner, so I was in and out of the room.” The butler cleared his throat. “It was not my intention to eavesdrop, but sometimes people ignore the presence of servants. Mrs. Stanford spoke freely and, by the end, rather loudly. Though she pretended to elegance, she was not the most genteel lady who ever dined at Northanger. I could not help but overhear.” He bowed. “I assure you of my discretion, sir. I have never repeated my employers’ business as gossip.”
“Of course not,” Henry said. “This, however, is a matter of importance involving a wrong done to my brother, so answering my questions does not place your loyalty in doubt. About what did they quarrel?”
“She suggested some improvements she planned to undertake as mistress of Northanger. Captain Tilney informed her that she would never be mistress of Northanger and appeared surprised that she had ever expected more than their present arrangement. She replied that he owed her a great deal more, that she had twice passed up comfortable situations with other gentlemen for him, and that if he would not make an honest woman of her he would have to make her a rich one. Then she threatened to depart that very day if he would not treat her as well as she deserved.”
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