North by Northanger m&mdm-3

by Carrie Bebris

  Wickham shifted restlessly. “I still do not understand why you insisted I accompany you here,” he muttered. He had been annoyingly blithe throughout his accomplices’ trial, but this afternoon he had turned ill-tempered.

  “Because were it not for your wife’s relationship to mine, you would be standing up there with the Thorpes.”

  “Oh, I see — I am to learn gratitude. There but for the grace of Darcy go I?”

  Darcy glared at the insufferable snake. “I would not behave in such a cocksure manner were I you. The quarter sessions in Derbyshire are yet to come.”

  The Darcys and Mr. Tilney had decided not to pursue prosecution of Mr. Wickham to the full extent of the law. Mr. Tilney considered the Thorpe siblings’ prosecution sufficient redress for the theft of the diamonds. In the matter of the ivory stolen from Pemberley, neither Darcy nor Elizabeth wanted to risk a death sentence for Lydia’s husband, as his execution would only leave Mrs. Wickham more dependent than ever on the rest of the family.

  Jenny, too, had escaped full punishment. As the misguided girl seemed to have learned her lesson, Darcy and Elizabeth had merely dismissed her and sent her back to Newcastle. But for Wickham, some deterrent to future misconduct was necessary. So he would stand trial at the quarter sessions, where Darcy hoped a few months’ hard labor would be ordered. It was possible, though not probable, that the experience might build his character, but even should it not, Wickham had nothing better to do with his time — he had already been discharged from the army for interfering with the notification of Captain Tilney’s death.

  Only five sentences remained for the judge to hand down. At last, Mr. Thorpe and Mrs. Stanford were called forward.

  “Have you anything to say?” the judge enquired.

  “Upon my soul, I certainly do!”

  Henry Tilney let slip a soft groan. “If John Thorpe speaks, he might as well hang himself.”

  “Your honor, I believe that during my trial, it was not made sufficiently clear that I am a gentleman. If it had been, the jury would not possibly have convicted me. Why, those old codgers probably could not even see who they were trying! If I were on the bench, I would conduct a new trial. By Jove, I would! Juries cannot simply go round convicting gentlemen. What will England come to?”

  “Fortunately, Mr. Thorpe, you need not concern yourself over the fate of England.”

  “Capital! I knew you were a fellow who would see things my way.”

  “Because you are being transported.”

  John Thorpe sputtered. “Transported?”

  “Seven years in Sydney” The judge followed the pronouncement with a lecture on respect for the law as the cornerstone of social order, meant as much for the audience as Mr. Thorpe — which was just as well, as Thorpe himself did not seem to absorb it in the least and did his best to interrupt.

  When his honor had finished, he turned to Isabella, who had paled at the pronouncement of her brother’s sentence. “And you, Mrs. Stanford—”

  “Your honor, please recall that I thought the whole scheme at Northanger was merely a charade. My brother arranged the whole thing. It was all—”

  “A misunderstanding? So you said at the trial. The court hereby sentences you to seven years’ transportation, same as Mr. Thorpe, and hopes that by the end of it, your understanding will be stronger.”

  “Seven years!” Mrs. Stanford appeared about to swoon. But as the judge orated further, she recovered herself, pulling back her shoulders and tilting her head coquettishly.

  “Might I approach the bench?” she asked in a soft voice.

  The judge, having ended his speech and, he had thought, his dealings with the Thorpes, released an impatient sigh. “What remains to be said, Mrs. Stanford?”

  With all the grace she could muster, Isabella strolled to the judge and murmured something only he could hear. One finger stroked the sleeve of his robe.

  His honor’s brows rose. “Indeed? In that case, I will change your sentence.”

  She batted her eyes and smiled.

  “Ten years.”

  The few remaining sentences required the longest amount of time to deliver. The judge donned a black cap before handing them down, and spoke long and passionately about crimes too heinous to pardon on earth. The recipients of these fire-and-brimstone sermons would not be going to a penal colony, but to the gallows.

  Wickham fidgeted throughout.

  When court adjourned, Wickham was the first of their party to stand. He crossed his arms defiantly and looked down at Darcy.

  “Am I dismissed?”

  Darcy rose and met him eye to eye. Despite Wickham’s bluff manner, Darcy detected disquiet within him. Perhaps in witnessing the fates of his friends, Wickham had finally glimpsed something unpleasant about himself.

  “Go,” he said. “I will see you at the quarter sessions.”

  Wickham acknowledged him with a nod. He then hobbled off, his injured ankle still troubling him.

  “So,” said Henry Tilney as they waited for the remainder of the crowd to file out of the hall, “Mr. Thorpe will be exchanging his famously swift horses for a slow boat to Australia.”

  “It would seem that his belief in the immunity of gentlemen from the law did not bear out,” Darcy replied.

  “No, but apparently the law — or, at least, the gentleman who administered it — did prove immune to Mrs. Stanford’s charms.”

  “Poor Mrs. Stanford.” Darcy met Tilney’s eye and grinned. “There must have been a misunderstanding.”

  Forty-One

  Have you remembered to collect pieces for the patchwork? We are now at a stand-still.

  — Jane Austen, letter to Cassandra

  “Thank you, Mr. Flynn, for coming all the way up here,” Elizabeth said. A fortnight into her lying-in, she had yet to leave her apartment. But she had need of the gardener’s knowledge and did not want to postpone consulting him.

  “It is my pleasure, Mrs. Darcy.”

  Her daughter slept in a cradle nearby, and he gazed at the baby for a long time. “A pretty one, she is. Just like her namesake.”

  She smiled, never tired of hearing compliments about her daughter. “You would certainly know” Just as he would know how to put together the puzzle she could not quite assemble. She gingerly walked to the table where the pieces of Helen Tilney’s quilt were laid out. Jane, her mother, even Lydia had offered to work together to help her restore it. With such a team working upon it, the result would be less than perfect. But the combined handiwork would make their creation more than a mere quilt. It would be an ideal legacy in which to place her daughter.

  “Helen Tilney created a quilt whose pattern represented Lady Anne’s garden,” she explained to Mr. Flynn. “The quilt has been damaged, but I am piecing it back together. I have encountered difficulty, however, with several sections that do not seem to fit where they belong. Since you know Lady Anne’s garden better than anybody else, I thought perhaps you could help me.”

  “I would be honored, Mrs. Darcy.”

  She showed him the sections she had arranged thus far, and the outstanding pieces that no longer fit. “The marigolds simply will not cooperate. Nor will the violets.”

  “That is because you have them in the wrong place,” he said. “If Mrs. Tilney made this design, it reflects the original plan of the garden. I later moved the marigolds to a bed where they receive more sunlight. Here,” he said, switching the pieces, “if you think of the garden’s rosette shape as a compass, the marigolds as Mrs. Tilney knew them were at northwest by north.”

  The pieces now fell into place — in more ways than one. She not only knew where Lady Anne’s friend had sewn the marigolds onto the quilt.

  She knew where Helen Tilney had sown the ivories in the garden.

  Epilogue

  She looked forward with delight to the time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing to either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at Pemberley.

  — Pride
and Prejudice

  A sweet perfume greeted Elizabeth and Darcy as they entered the south garden. It was a fine June day, and the Madonna lilies had just bloomed. Though Elizabeth often strolled with the baby in Lady Anne’s garden, at last she and Darcy could introduce their daughter to the flower whose name she bore.

  Lily-Anne Darcy took only casual interest in her surroundings as her father held her up to admire the lilies. She had, after all, recently discovered her own hands, and celebrated this extraordinary event by spending a good portion of her waking hours attempting to stuff all of her fingers into her mouth at once. The nursery maid had apologized repeatedly for not yet managing to break her of the habit. Elizabeth and Darcy found the practice adorable.

  Elizabeth broke off a single flower and brought it to Lily-Anne for closer inspection. The baby smiled, grabbed its stem tightly in her small fist, and waved it round.

  “I believe she approves,” Darcy said. He looked to Elizabeth, but she yet observed their daughter.

  “Rather too much. She is trying to eat it.”

  He pried the flower from Lily-Anne’s fingers and returned it to Elizabeth. She tickled the baby’s cheek with its petals, eliciting smiles from both daughter and husband.

  When Lily tired of the game, Darcy placed her in Elizabeth’s arms. “Unfortunately, I must leave now or I shall arrive late.”

  “This is such a perfect day that I refuse to allow your errand to spoil it. So long as you do not return from the quarter sessions with the news that Mr. Wickham has been released into our custody, I shall be satisfied.”

  Darcy shuddered at the very notion. “Responsibility for one child is enough.” He met her eyes. “For now” He kissed his wife, bade Lily- Anne behave for her mother, and departed.

  Left alone with her daughter, Elizabeth walked round the garden. The marigolds were preparing to bloom, and the first violets of spring had appeared none the worse for having been temporarily displaced to retrieve the nine statuettes Helen Tilney had hidden. Henry Tilney and his wife had come in person to collect the ivories, and all had taken such pleasure in the visit that the couple extended it twice before finally returning to Gloucestershire. It appeared that in burying her treasure at Pemberley, Helen Tilney had also planted seeds of a friendship between the next generations of Tilneys and Darcys that would be cherished as much as the one she had enjoyed with Lady Anne. The Darcys looked forward to calling upon the Tilneys later in the year, and had been assured that, this time, they would experience a perfectly ordinary reception at Northanger Abbey.

  She carried the baby to the alcove that had sheltered Lady Anne’s treasure for so many years. Despite the prominence of the summerhouse, Darcy’s mother had been correct about this more understated corner offering a superior view of the lilies. She had also been right about the glare of the sun upon the desk in the morning room; Elizabeth had finally conceded the point and had it moved back to its original position. Apparently, the new Mrs. Darcy still had much to learn, but she no longer found herself overshadowed by the memory of Darcy’s mother. Indeed, she had come to consider Lady Anne an ally.

  The light breeze marshaled itself into a brief gust, carrying the scent of lilies even more strongly to her senses. A few dried leaves scudded into the alcove. A folded paper was among them.

  “Lily, what have we found?” Elizabeth bent and retrieved the paper. It was a note in handwriting she now knew as well as her own.

  My dear Mrs. Darcy,

  My lifetime is ended; my days as Pemberley’s mistress, past. I commit words to paper once more because it now falls to you to carry on my legacy.

  For two and a half centuries, a treasure passed from mother to daughter. By the time my own mother placed in my hands a small chest containing the Madonna ivory, it had long been assumed that the statuette was this treasure. It is not.

  When I made my pilgrimage to the cathedral library, I discovered that among the many riches held by Northanger Abbey before the Dissolution, the greatest had been the one most humble in appearance: a relic of Mary, a portion of her mantle brought from the Holy Land during the Crusades. It is this relic, which enfolds the Mother and Child I inherited, that constitutes the true treasure handed down through generations — for those who hold it, if they be of faithful heart and worthy spirit, receive the gift of grace.

  A treasure such as this cannot be possessed, only held, and to you I entrust its stewardship. I could not commend it to a better caretaker. Guard it well. And in time pass it to your daughter.

  Now tend to your garden, Mrs. Darcy — to your life with Fitzwilliam and the children you will raise, your own precious lilies. And know that one who has gone before you watches fondly from above.

  — A. D.

  Elizabeth studied the note. It bore no date. From its opening, she presumed it had been written while Lady Anne lay dying. Yet she could not imagine Darcy’s mother exerting herself at such a time to pen a second letter to an unknown future daughter-in-law, let alone a note reflecting such serenity. Nor could she begin to account for its appearance in the garden, at this moment, blown in by the breath of summer.

  Lily-Anne cooed, drawing her from reverie. The infant grasped her mother’s finger and smiled.

  “My own precious Lily,” Elizabeth whispered. “Your grandmama practically called you by name. However did she know?”

  Other phrases in the letter had suggested similar prescience. Either Lady Anne had seen what lay ahead, or her message had been composed more recently.

  “Perhaps your grandmama’s presence here is even stronger than I realized,” she said. She made the sort of playful face that very young children somehow manage to elicit from otherwise dignified adults, to the glee of her daughter. Then she held up the baby so that they two were eye to eye. “What think you, Lily-Anne? Has your grandmama’s spirit been about?”

  Lily smiled again. Then her gaze moved past Elizabeth’s shoulder and she giggled.

  It was her daughter’s first true laugh. Elizabeth turned round to see what had captured her delight. But nothing was behind her.

  Nothing but the breeze and the fragrance of lilies.

  Author’s Note

  I have now attained the true art of letter-writing, which we are always told is to express on paper exactly what one would say to the same person by word of mouth. I have been talking to you almost as fast as I could the whole of this letter.

  — Jane Austen, letter to Cassandra

  Dear Readers,

  After writing so many letters between fictional characters in this story, it seems only fitting that I close the book with a letter to you.

  Many of you have been kind enough to write and share your thoughts about the Darcy series, and I take great pleasure in your letters. One of the most common subjects of questions is the amount of research I do for each book. I strive to be as accurate as I can, performing research not only before I begin a new story, but also the whole time I’m writing it and even after completing the initial draft — still trying to find elusive answers, confirm details in multiple sources, or reconcile conflicting information. Research discoveries often create or shape plot ideas and sometimes even change the course of the book. Other times, the influence of historical facts is more subtle, such as in descriptions or word choices.

  Which leads me to a confession. While researching for North by Northanger, I was disappointed to learn that although Lilium candidum is a very old flower long associated with the Virgin Mary, it did not become known by the name “Madonna lily” until the second half of the nineteenth century — after my novel takes place. Therefore, to be historically accurate, Mr. Flynn, Lady Anne, Helen Tilney, and Elizabeth Darcy ought to call it by its older name, the Annunciation lily. I wrestled long and hard with this troublesome fact. Though William Shakespeare wrote that “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet,” I felt that in the context of this story — one that resonates with the theme of maternal bonds — calling the Madonna lily by any other name would diminish its
effect. So I took a little poetic license and, for the sake of storytelling, allowed my characters a vocabulary word slightly ahead of their time. I hope you will forgive me.

  I also hope you have enjoyed Elizabeth and Darcy’s latest adventure, and the opportunity to become reacquainted with (or perhaps first meet) some of the characters from Northanger Abbey, one of my favorite Austen novels. Alas, Austen wrote only six full-length books. But she also left behind numerous letters and minor works, and research for North by Northanger led me to study her letters more closely than I ever had before in order to capture the epistolary style of the era. I had forgotten how entertaining they were — as full of wit, irony, and incisive observations as her novels, with a whole new cast of characters to entertain us. If you are a fan of Austen but have never read her letters, you might want to give them a try.

  Meanwhile, you can find more information about the Mr. & Mrs. Darcy series and my forthcoming books at my Web site: www.carriebebris.com. And if, while you’re there, you should happen to drop me a note, I’d be delighted to hear from you. No quill pen required!

  Yours most sincerely,

  Carrie Bebris

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