North by Northanger (A Mr. & Mrs. Darcy Mystery) (24 page)

“I do not believe I have ever seen such a lock.”

“Instead of requiring a key, it has moveable rings inscribed with letters that must be turned to the proper combination to open it. Wickham, of course, wanted to see what the strongbox held. He attempted to guess the code but was unsuccessful.” Darcy recalled the scene with disgust; Wickham’s failure had resulted largely from the fact that the lock had four rings, and he had amused himself by spelling all manner of vulgar words. “I indulged the experiment for a few minutes, despite uneasiness. The box did not belong to us, I told him, and should remain undisturbed. He responded that as heir to Pemberley, I had a right to everything on the estate. Then he challenged me, asking whether I was clever enough to puzzle out the combination.”

“And you could not retreat from such a challenge, especially issued by Wickham.”

“My pride would not allow it.” Remorse washed over him. He had ignored his conscience and listened instead to the voice of conceit, allowed an unprincipled ne’er-do-well to goad him into conduct he had known to be wrong. “Wickham worried that Mr. Flynn would interrupt us, so we quit the garden and brought the casket into the
woods. I tried all day to determine the code—I could not bear for Wickham to witness my failure.

“When the dinner hour approached, I was at last forced to admit defeat. We returned the strongbox to its repository and I left Wickham to go dress for dinner. Immediately upon entering the house, I learned that my mother’s travail had begun some hours earlier.” He shook his head, as if denying them now could change the events of the past. “She must have gone to the summerhouse while I was vainly using the thing most precious to her to prove to the worthless George Wickham that I was more clever than he.”

“
You
were the thing most precious to her.”

Elizabeth’s statement only made him feel worse. “And I repaid that affection by stealing from her the one object that might have succored her.” That might have saved her. Though Darcy did not believe the statuette or any other good-luck charm held any innate power of its own to affect one’s fortune, he did believe it possible that the faith of its owner might influence a course of events. If his mother had held the ivory, might she have drawn on inner reserves she did not realize she possessed?

“You were a child.”

“I was eleven years old. Old enough to know better than to take, even temporarily, something that was not mine. Especially at the very time it was most needed.”

“You did not know what it was, and could not have known your mother sought it.” Her eyes held the forgiveness he would never be able to beg from the person he had injured. “If you would blame anyone, let it be Wickham. He bears at least as much responsibility as you, and deserves so much censure for other offenses that he will hardly notice the addition.” She took his hand. “Come, let us set aside these remaining letters for now and go to the garden to retrieve the strongbox.”

The air inside the summerhouse had been cold on the January day Georgiana was born, and, the anniversary of that event approaching, the temperature was just as low when Darcy entered with Elizabeth.
Not inclined to linger in a place that held a memory so repugnant to him, he immediately approached the fountain and located the section of loose bricks. Elizabeth stood behind him as he knelt to remove them.

The slight gap that had admitted his fingers as a boy now proved too small for him to obtain a grip on the initial brick. “I am afraid this requires a woman’s hand,” he said.

He helped Elizabeth lower herself to the ground. She grasped the brick and worked it out of its niche. Once it had been removed, the rest followed more easily. Soon the small cavity was exposed to view.

It was empty.

“Did you ever return for the strongbox?” Elizabeth enquired.

“No. My mother died that night, and I was so distraught, and the household in such chaos, that I forgot about it entirely. Indeed, it never entered my thoughts again until this day.”

“Apparently, someone remembered.”

Darcy suspected they need look no further than one individual. One who had been extremely disappointed at Darcy’s failure to figure out the proper alphabet combination. Who had become surly when Darcy forbade him to smash the lock to discover what the box held. “I believe an interview with Mr. Wickham is in order.”

“Agreed. But where? Will you summon him to Pemberley?”

“Certainly not.” So long as the reprobate remained in England, he was already too close to Pemberley for Darcy’s liking. Why could his regiment not be sent to India?

“Then a trip to Newcastle is required. I suppose Lady Catherine will insist on accompanying you to continue performing her duty to the courts.”

“I will travel there alone. If Lady Catherine seeks the ivory for herself, we need not aid her by making her aware of this development. We must offer a plausible explanation for my journey and a compelling reason that she must stay behind with you.”

“That will prove difficult. She will enquire into every particular of the business you undertake, and even then is unlikely to let you out
of her sight with the courts providing such convenient justification for inserting herself into our affairs.” She thought a moment. “I believe it is best she know nothing of your absence at all.”

“But I shall be gone for several days at least—longer, should Mr. Wickham prove uncooperative. Surely she will notice my empty seat in the dining room.”

Elizabeth contemplated, then looked at him archly. “Cough a bit at dinner tonight. Leave Graham behind at Pemberley. And trust the rest to me.”

Twenty-four

This morning has been spent in doubt and deliberation; in forming plans, and removing difficulties
.

—
Jane Austen, letter to Cassandra

Northanger Abbey
19 January 1788
Dear Anne
,

Your account of Fitzwilliam’s latest caper amused me exceedingly. There is nothing quite like the mind of a child. He must be a source of happy diversion for you as you await the arrival of his sibling
.

I confess, in the four years we have now known each other, I have formed an impression of your sister that is not quite favorable. I can scarcely believe your entreaties to Lady C. fall upon deaf ears. Even if convinced the ivory statuette rightfully belongs to her, can she not at least lend it to you, to set your mind at ease during your approaching confinement?

However, much as you want your mother’s gift with you, do not persuade yourself that you can be safely delivered only through its power. Though it may, as your mother’s female line has long believed, bring luck to women in travail, consider that I and all the other mothers of your acquaintance have brought healthy children into the world without benefit of such tokens. That you lost your last babe in the birthing room after surrendering the statuette to Lady C. does not mean you will lose this child. I understand how your previous grief creates in you foreboding over the trial to come, but do not invest all your faith in an object—even a blessed one. Have some in yourself and your own strength
.

Trust me. For I am—

Your most devoted friend,
Helen Tilney

Northanger Abbey
30 January 1788
Dear Anne
,

Today the west cloister wall was dismantled for repair, and can you imagine what was discovered? The other nine ivories, bundled in a tapestry! Once your statuette left the abbey, the prioress must have hidden these away—better for the Crown to remain ignorant of them all than for a partial set to draw attention to its missing member. The statuettes are exquisite, as detailed and well preserved as yours
.

I have asked General Tilney if we might give one of these ivories to you, to replace the figurine your sister withholds. He will not hear of it, and forbids me to broach the matter again. I am sorry, my friend. I wish I could do more, but we have known each other long enough that you understand my real power in this house is nothing. . . .

I remain—

Yours most faithfully,
Helen Tilney

Northanger Abbey
16 February 1788
Dear Anne
,

Last night General Tilney and I quarreled again over the statuettes. He intends to sell them! He says they are worth a great deal of money, and that he shall find a collector willing to pay him handsomely. How can he look upon these beautiful, sacred objects and see only their monetary value? I hope they fetch him forty pieces of silver
.

He departs tomorrow to join his regiment for a period of time, after which he intends to pursue the sale. I cannot countenance it. You have often invited me to visit you at Pemberley, and I have always deferred to General Tilney’s preference that I not absent myself from Northanger. No more. If you will have me, I shall come within this fortnight. We will be merry as I help you plant your new flower garden and prepare for another Darcy. . . .

28 April 1788 . . . I have safely reached home, but a furious husband awaited me. It seems that during his absence, the statuettes disappeared from Northanger. He accuses me of authoring the business, but I said I could tell him nothing, having been away from the abbey myself these several weeks. He now levels accusation upon me with every glance. For my part, I am glad the ivories—wherever they might be—have escaped his mercenary grasp. . . .

13 May 1788 . . . Words cannot convey an apology adequate enough to address my husband’s actions toward you. Please believe that I was ignorant of his journey to Pemberley until after he returned. When he revealed the nature of his errand to me, I was overcome with mortification. He had suspected me of delivering the missing ivories into your care—allegations which, being of course untrue, I repeatedly denied. But to descend upon you in your own home, and accuse you of harboring the statuettes! It is inexcusable. I am glad your husband ejected him from the house. I hope he did so before General Tilney’s unpardonable conduct distressed you too greatly. What manner of friend am I, to have even inadvertently subjected you to such abuse in your condition?

The entire matter has so upset me that I have taken ill. The bilious fever that periodically plagues me has returned. It shall pass—it always does—but I shall rest easier if I knew a chance existed that my husband’s unforgivable behavior has not cost me your friendship. . . .

21 May 1788 . . . I have recovered my health once more, aided in no small part by the assurance of your continued friendship. Your last letter provided more comfort than any apothecary’s physic, and for it, and the generous sentiments it expressed, I thank you. Though you enjoined me to spare the matter of my husband’s gross misconduct not another moment’s regret, do indulge me in one final expression of most sincere apology. There—that is an end of it, and all is easy between us once more
.

My harmony with General Tilney is not so simply restored. Though I say nothing about it to my husband, I have not yet forgiven him. He, meanwhile, continues glowering, but I am grown used to his moods. My recent illness has tempered his displeasure to a degree, and eventually he will find some matter besides the ivories to occupy his thoughts
.

My pen moves on to happier subjects. The day you have anticipated these nine months cannot be long off now. I offer up prayers each morning and evening for your safe deliverance, but trust that all will proceed well this time. So certain am I, that I enclose this gift for the new child. Its creation has brought me many hours of pleasure, for I am continually reminded of our friendship and your new garden at Pemberley. How fare your marigolds? Though not yet blooming, I expect they thrive
.

When your little one arrives, nestle this quilt around him or her and know that you are ever in my thoughts. . . .

2 June 1788 . . . I grieve with you and Mr. Darcy in the loss of your newborn daughter. I thought surely this time fortune would smile favorably upon you. Why God called Maria to Him, we cannot know, but doubtless Our Lady carried her to Him in Her own arms, and will watch over her with a Mother’s heart until you see her again
.

Perhaps in this dark time, your garden might bring you some small measure of comfort. The lilies of the valley—Our Lady’s Tears—should be in bloom. Let She who knows a mother’s sorrow bear some of yours. . . .

6 July 1789 . . . I find myself again unwell—my usual complaint has returned. My daughter is away from home, but Henry and Frederick are a comfort to me. I have not been able to enjoy my favorite walk, or even to sit in my garden. I can see from my window that the marigolds have bloomed. How do yours?

The effort of writing has taxed me beyond expectation, so I will close
.

Ever your friend,
H. T
.