North by Northanger (A Mr. & Mrs. Darcy Mystery) (28 page)

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

D
orothy’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.”

“How did Frederick respond?”

“He wished her a fair journey.”

Henry asked the butler a few more questions, then dismissed him from the room.

“So,” Henry said, “Mrs. Stanford aspired to become Mrs. Frederick Tilney, and when my brother disillusioned her, they parted ways.”

“Not necessarily. The information I obtained in Newcastle suggests that they reconciled. By all accounts, they were still together when Captain Tilney died. Either Mrs. Stanford accepted the limitations of their relationship, or thought that given more time she could change his mind.”

“But she ran out of time. My brother was killed, and she was left with nothing.”

“So she enlisted an accomplice to pose as Captain Tilney and—” And do what? Here, logic failed for Darcy. How did any of this pertain to him and Elizabeth? “If she believed herself entitled to part of your brother’s fortune, why did she not simply steal the diamonds for herself? Why concoct an elaborate scheme involving me, and what did she accomplish by it?”

“Perhaps you were not meant to be caught with the diamonds. You did not know your walking stick had been replaced, or that the substitute contained them. Perhaps she planned to retrieve the jewels later, with you none the wiser for having transported them.”

“Again, for what reason did she select me—Fitzwilliam Darcy—as their unwitting conductor? I, who had no connection to her, and only the slightest one to your family. How could she even have known our mothers shared a friendship three decades ago?”

“Yet that was the subject of your conversation with Frederick’s imposter, was it not? Did he not enquire about letters between them?”

“Yes—which, by the way, we have discovered.”

“Indeed? Might they bring anything to bear on this puzzle?”

“I have not read them all, though I expect Mrs. Darcy has by now. Apparently, the acquaintance between our mothers began when my mother contacted your parents for information regarding an ivory statuette that had belonged to Northanger Abbey before the Dissolution. The figurine entered her family’s possession at that time, though I understand there were nine others.”

Henry rolled his eyes. “Indeed, there were—I cannot tell you how often we heard about them. They were quite valuable, and my father hoped to sell them for a handsome sum. But before he found a buyer, they disappeared from the house.”

“Had your father any notion of their fate?”

“He most certainly did. My mother had opposed the sale, and he accused her of having hidden the statuettes or given them away. If she did, it was the one time she ever defied him. But he never found them, and he resented the loss of those ivories to his dying day. I think he complained about them to my poor brother even more than to my sister or me. He often said that my mother had robbed Frederick of part of his inheritance.”

“Did Frederick share that opinion?”

“I think he doubted her capacity to resist my father’s will. She bore a great deal from him. His presence in this house was so strong that it eclipsed hers. While she lived, the house reflected my father’s taste, not hers, and after she died hardly anything retained her influence. Her apartment went untouched, but her favorite garden gave way to a pinery, and even her portrait was removed from the drawing room. Very few of her effects remain—we have, for instance, no letters written to or from her such as you were so fortunate to discover at Pemberley. I should like to see them, if I might.”

“Of course,” Darcy said. He paused as a thought struck him. “In fact, given the interest Frederick’s imposter had in them, perhaps you would like to read them sooner rather than later. Your better knowledge of their author might enable you to discover something in them that my wife and I cannot. Would you care to come to Pemberley?”

Henry readily accepted, and they fixed upon a date in the near future. Darcy would have invited Mr. Tilney to accompany him back to Pemberley immediately, but when he departed Northanger on the morrow he would head south, not north.

He had one more stop to make.

Twenty-eight

There was a scarcity of men in general, and a still greater scarcity of any that were good for much
.

—
Jane Austen, letter to Cassandra

D
r. Severn has arrived, ma’am.”

Elizabeth almost poked herself with her needle. Her lying-in was not anticipated for another several weeks, and she doubted the physician had suddenly developed such interest in her as to journey to Derbyshire early just to lend his support. She would sooner credit him with intending to disrupt the impromptu concert to which Georgiana presently treated her and Lady Catherine in the music room.

“Dr. Severn? I did not send for him.”

Georgiana’s hands stilled on the pianoforte. “I did.”

Elizabeth directed a questioning gaze toward her.

“I wrote to him the day your leg failed.” Georgiana rose and crossed the room to Elizabeth’s side. “Please do not be angry. Had I not, and something unfortunate happened, my brother would never forgive me.”

She could not resent Georgiana for her concern, nor for the love
and loyalty to her brother—and to herself—that had motivated the summons. “I am not angry. You acted as Darcy directed.”

Part of Elizabeth was glad for the opportunity to confirm Mrs. Godwin’s assessment with the doctor. The rest of her dreaded the conversation. She always left their exchanges with the sense that Dr. Severn considered her ignorant, incompetent, and insignificant. “Settle him in the guest wing,” she told Mrs. Reynolds. “I will receive him in my dressing room afterward.”

“It is about time someone in this house summoned a doctor,” Lady Catherine declared. “My nephew must be at death’s door. I have not seen him since—I cannot recall. It has been well over a se’nnight. As soon as this Dr. Severn finishes with you, I insist he cure Mr. Darcy’s cold.”

Darcy’s “illness”
had
lingered so long that the excuse was becoming increasingly difficult to maintain. Lady Catherine grew more suspicious by the hour. Perhaps Elizabeth needed to adjust her strategy.

“Mr. Darcy is much improved today. In fact, he rose early and went shooting.”

Lady Catherine eyed her skeptically. “So I may look forward to seeing him at dinner?”