North by Northanger (A Mr. & Mrs. Darcy Mystery) (31 page)

Dinner had been an ordeal; the drawing room afterward, a crucible. Her father—lucky man—had withdrawn to the library for a time, leaving the ladies to divert themselves in the formal reception
room until he joined them later. Both Lady Catherine and Mrs. Bennet had remarked on Darcy’s absence from dinner, inspiring Georgiana to seat herself at the small pianoforte to offer a distraction. Her efforts, however, only resulted in allowing the married ladies to engage in discourse on topics that would have gone unmentioned in Georgiana’s hearing and Elizabeth’s preference. Mrs. Bennet had nearly nine months’ worth of sage maternal advice to impart, and Lady Catherine, torn between impulses to demonstrate her superiority through haughty silence and to issue a contrary opinion on every matter raised, at last yielded to the latter. The pair of them commenced an inharmonious duet, each verse of which underscored Elizabeth’s incorrect resolution on some issue related to her impending motherhood. Lydia chimed in with a descant voicing her disinclination for the entire theme. Elizabeth, though the chief subject of the opus, was all but drowned out by the more impassioned vocalists and contented herself with marking time. The performance reached a crescendo in a spirited arioso by Lady Catherine on the subject of wet nurses which almost drove Lydia to cover her ears before the entrance of Mr. Bennet ended the discordant concerto.

Now, just when Elizabeth thought she had escaped to the sanctuary of her bedchamber for the night, an incessant pounding rattled her door. Was it Lydia, come to hint that a spare twenty or fifty pounds would finance her extravagant habits for another few months? Beyond citing an implausible desire to be useful to Elizabeth during her confinement, her youngest sister still had not offered an explanation for her appearance at Pemberley, and Elizabeth had been too much occupied in maintaining civility between her and Lady Catherine to extract the truth. Perhaps it was her mother, come to rhapsodize further over how fat Elizabeth had grown. The subject had served as a refrain for every conversational lull at dinner. Pregnant pauses, indeed.

She donned her dressing gown and opened the door to reveal candidate number three: Lady Catherine. Of course. Who else would consider herself justified in disturbing her hostess after she had retired
for the evening? Elizabeth had just been about to climb into bed and begin a futile attempt to find a comfortable sleeping position.

“Lady Catherine, what do you require at this time of night that a servant cannot procure for you?”

“My nephew. Hide-and-seek is a children’s game, Mrs. Darcy, and I have done with it. If your husband is in fact here at Pemberley, he ought to be in his bedchamber at this hour. I demand that you produce him now.”

“I would do so, your ladyship, but I am afraid he is—” She desperately sought an excuse she had not yet employed. “Exhausted.”

“Exhausted?” Lady Catherine repeated scornfully. “In what has he engaged that left him exhausted?”

Elizabeth did not reply, only pulled her dressing gown more tightly closed and raised her brows innocently.

Lady Catherine’s eyes widened. “In your condition!” For the first time in Elizabeth’s recollection, the slightest tinge of embarrassment stained her ladyship’s cheek. “You should be ashamed.”

“Ashamed of what?” Lydia strolled down the hall. “Lizzy never does anything of which she should be ashamed.” She giggled. “Though perhaps you ought to, Lizzy. It might be good for you.”

“Brazen hussies, both of you!” her ladyship choked out.

Lydia giggled again, then disregarded her ladyship altogether. “Lizzy, the fire in my chamber has died.”

“Lydia, it is late. I tire easily these days. Why do you bring this to me instead of simply ringing for a housemaid?”

“I
did
ring—she has not responded yet. Besides, I thought you ought to know. One cannot be too strict with the help, after all. Does your ladyship not agree?”

To be first ignored by someone she considered inferior and then solicited for corroboration on the subject of servants as if she and Lydia were on equal footing nearly sent Lady Catherine into spasms. She cut Lydia from her view entirely. “Mrs. Darcy, I demand to see my nephew. Now.”

“Oh, Lizzy! Thank heaven you are still awake!” Mrs. Bennet bustled
down the hall toward them. “I have been thinking about your finding a husband for Mary.”

“Lizzy, it is cold in my chamber—”

“—Are there any eligible gentlemen in the neighborhood?”

“Mrs. Darcy—my nephew!”

If she sank to the floor and began rocking with her head between her hands, would any of them notice? Their voices swirled around her like a maelstrom. And then, miraculously, the voice she most longed to hear broke through the cacophony.

“Perhaps this conversation can continue on the morrow.”

She turned round to be certain she had not imagined it, so fervently had she wished for the sound. A set of dark eyes met hers, and order was restored to her world.

Darcy was home.

Thirty-two

Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer
.

—Pride and Prejudice

D
arcy wanted to spend a minute simply beholding his wife, but could not indulge the desire until their audience dispersed. So disperse it he would.

He took Elizabeth’s hand and drew her back into their chamber. “My wife needs her rest. Whatever business you have with her can wait.”

That statement alone proved enough to send Mrs. Bennet, who found him the most intimidating of her sons-in-law, scurrying back to her own bedroom. Lydia required only the addition of a disapproving look before muttering her intention to ring for a housemaid again.

Lady Catherine, however, remained, despite uncharacteristic discomposure. His attire seemed the source of her agitation. Unsure whether he yet suffered from a debilitating cold, he had taken the precaution of exchanging his clothes for a nightshirt upon reaching their apartment, so that he appeared to have just risen from bed and
hastily donned a pair of trousers before coming to the bedchamber door. For some reason, his state of undress—hardly unexpected, given the hour—evoked Lady Catherine’s disapproval.

“My business is with you, Mr. Darcy,” his aunt declared.

“Then it, too, can wait. You may consider me entirely at your disposal after breakfast. Until then, I bid you good night.” Without further ceremony, he shut the door. And closed his arms about his wife.

Impatient to return to her, Darcy had found the weeks of their separation long. Now it seemed as though twice as much time had passed. His embrace could no longer fully encircle her. He placed a hand on their son and was rewarded with a kick.

“Your child missed you,” she said.

“Did his mother?”

“Oh—were you gone? I had not noticed.”

If the scene to which he had returned were any indication, she’d had plenty of companionship to divert her. “Mr. Wickham did not accompany his wife, I hope?”

“He is not about Pemberley.” She stepped out of his arms and looked up at him. Though the slight distance between them granted him a better view of the face he had longed to see, he did not want to let her go. “How did you come to be in our bedchamber without anyone’s observing your entrance?”

“I entered my dressing room through the servants’ door.” He took both her hands in his, unable to completely break contact. He simply wanted to be near her. “I did not wish to risk encountering anyone before conferring with you, as I did not know whether you had been able to maintain our original pretext.”

“Your illness lasted about a week. You recovered when your aunt began insisting that we summon a doctor.”

“How have I busied myself since?”

“You have been conducting business in the village, visiting every part of the house Lady Catherine was not presently in, and engaging in all manner of outdoor sport. Then this evening you took to bed once more.”

“What kept me there this time?”

Her eyes glinted with mischief. “Indoor sport.”

He laughed. “I am sorry I missed it. I hope I acquitted myself well?”

“Tolerably.”

“Only tolerably?”

“Your mind seemed to be elsewhere. So did the rest of you, for that matter. Where
have
you been?”

“Most recently, in Bath. After meeting with Henry Tilney at Northanger, I wanted to interview the owner of the shop where you noted the walking stick similar to mine displayed in the window. I decided that I was already so far south that I might as well continue on to Bath and conduct my business as efficiently as possible.”

“And how did you come to visit Northanger Abbey? When you left here, you were headed to Newcastle to question Mr. Wickham about your mother’s strongbox. From Pemberley, one does not travel north by Northanger.”

“I did speak to Wickham. And no sooner did we finish our conversation, than I spied the mysterious Dorothy.”

Her eyes widened in astonishment. “In Newcastle?”

“She was the cause of my first delay. She fled when she saw me, and I spent several days trying to locate her again. My search proved unsuccessful, but my enquiries revealed that she was in fact Frederick Tilney’s mistress.”

“Dorothy and Captain Tilney? My! That elucidates a few matters, does it not? She must have been a better lover than housekeeper.”

“She was never a housekeeper at all, just the widow of one of Frederick’s fellow officers. Until the night I sighted her, she had not been seen in Newcastle since Captain Tilney’s death. I lost her trail there, so I went to report my findings to Henry Tilney and learn whether he knew anything of Mrs. Stanford.”

“And did he?”

“No, but his butler recalled her having visited Northanger once. She and the captain quarreled when he abruptly dashed her hopes of
marriage. Apparently, however, she decided to satisfy herself with his fortune if not his hand.”

“Did he provide for her upon his death?”

“Not in any formal manner, according to Henry Tilney. Reports in Newcastle indicate that she quit her rooms there because she could no longer afford them.”

“And headed straight for Northanger, where we encountered her before Henry received word of his brother’s death. Hmm.” She sat on one end of the chaise longue, making room for him to sit beside her. “You said she was the widow of another officer?”

“Yes, a Colonel Reginald Stanford.”

“The dispatch to Henry Tilney did not reach him for two weeks. Might Mrs. Stanford have used her connections to delay the delivery?”

“That is quite possible. Apparently, she was well acquainted with a number of officers. She could have called upon one of them for a favor, or used her wiles on the messenger himself.”

“Either way, the delay provided enough time for her and the false Captain Tilney to meet us at Northanger Abbey.” She frowned. “But what interest had she in us?”

“I have been contemplating that point,” he said. “Mrs. Stanford could have known of our expected visit and, for reasons of her own, wanted it to proceed.”

“So she found someone to pose as the captain, and the two of them met us in Frederick Tilney’s place.”

“Precisely. After we departed and their objective—whatever it was—had been satisfied, the dispatch was delivered to Henry Tilney.”

“Do you suppose their objective was at all related to the true Captain Tilney’s original motive for his invitation? He cited a desire to renew the acquaintance between families, and the false captain seemed to know something of that history. Enough, at least, to enquire into the friendship between your mother and Helen Tilney, and whether Mrs. Tilney ever visited Pemberley.”

“Which she did not.”

“As a matter of fact, she did—and so did the general.” Elizabeth rose and went into her dressing room. She returned a minute later with a handful of letters. “You were a boy of only four, so that is probably why you do not remember. She came to visit shortly after the other nine ivories that match your mother’s were discovered at Northanger. While Mrs. Tilney was here, the statuettes disappeared from Northanger, and General Tilney, convinced she had given them to Lady Anne, descended upon Pemberley looking for them. Here—read for yourself.”

He did, and wished he had possessed this information when he last spoke with Henry Tilney. “The statuettes were never found, and Henry Tilney told me that his father went to his grave resenting their loss. The general often spoke of them, especially to Frederick.”

“Then at some point, he likely shared his suspicion that Mrs. Tilney brought them to Pemberley. Perhaps Frederick, upon noticing your name in the Pump Room book, was reminded of the lost ivories. He invited us to Northanger to learn what he could about them and, if they were indeed at Pemberley, request their return.”

“And when he died before our meeting—”

“His mistress, having nothing but warm memories to show for her years of devotion to him, decided nine medieval statuettes would constitute fair payment if she could get her hands on them. She found someone to pose as Frederick long enough to meet us in his place. When the interview yielded nothing, she used your walking stick to smuggle the diamonds out of Northanger. If she could not have the ivories, she would console herself with jewels. What I cannot puzzle out, however, is how she obtained such a perfect copy of your cane in the short time we were at Northanger.”

“I believe the substitute walking stick was made some time earlier. The Bath merchant recalled crafting it eight years ago.”

“For whom?”

He set aside Mrs. Tilney’s letters. “The gentleman who commissioned it gave the name George Darcy.”

“Your father?”

“No. The purchaser was too young to be my father. The shopkeeper said he was a university student.”

“A gentleman at university in ought-four . . . That would make him about your age. But who would take such liberty with the name George Darcy? I cannot conceive of anyone’s attempting to conduct legitimate business in another man’s name, except perhaps his son.”

“Or godson.”