North by Northanger (A Mr. & Mrs. Darcy Mystery) (27 page)

The question sparked nervousness within her. If Darcy’s aunt knew she had received the lily several days ago, how closely did Lady Catherine monitor her apartment and her movements? Darcy was still away from Pemberley—did she suspect his absence? Or was her surveillance motivated only by their race to locate Lady Anne’s ivory?

“As you can see, the petals on my lily suffer no deterioration such as those exhibit.” Thankfully, as later today she would give the flower to Mr. Flynn as a substitute for the one intended for Lady Anne’s grave. “Those petals must have come from another lily.” Elizabeth watched Lady Catherine as she made the last statement, but her ladyship’s face did not hint at any knowledge of the missing plant. Nor did it suggest that Elizabeth’s response had mollified her in the least.

“As if this day is not upsetting enough. You
do
comprehend its significance?”

“It is Georgiana’s birthday.”

“Also the anniversary of my sister’s death.”

“I have not forgotten.” Indeed, she’d hoped Darcy would have somehow completed his errand and returned by today with enough information from Mr. Wickham to locate the statuette. Fulfilling Lady Anne’s last request—that Elizabeth find the missing heirloom for her—seemed a fitting way to acknowledge the date. But Darcy had sent a brief message indicating he had been delayed. He had included no explanation, probably wise considering the tendency toward disappearance that letters and other items at Pemberley had begun to exhibit.

“I trust my nephew will exert some effort to remember his mother today? Emerging from his sickroom might form a start. This cold of his has gone on quite long enough. He
has
been taking the physics I provided?”

“They have all been put to use,” she said quite honestly. Graham had discovered them particularly effective for polishing boots.

“Then he should not be ailing so. Perhaps he requires a doctor.”

“I am sure one or two days more will restore him to perfect health.”

She prayed Darcy would be home by then. Lady Catherine enquired more closely into his “illness” each day, and Elizabeth grew weary of keeping up the subterfuge. Upon receiving the news of his delay, she had taken Georgiana into her confidence to solicit her aid in distracting their aunt. Georgiana had surprised her by confessing
that Darcy had already advised her of his journey—though not its purpose—and requested that she keep a vigilant eye on Elizabeth’s health in his absence. Elizabeth appreciated the solicitude of her husband and sister-in-law, but believed herself equal to monitoring the changes within her. She grew larger each day, and her shifting center of gravity sometimes left her feeling less than steady on her feet, but otherwise she felt fine.

“Tell my nephew I would see him later today. Perhaps he can provide a satisfactory explanation for these petals, as you have not.”

“And perhaps you can offer an acceptable justification for trespassing in here. What were you seeking in that trunk—Lady Anne’s ivory?”

“I have told you, that ivory was not hers, but mine.”

“I will spare you further trouble. It is not in that trunk, nor anywhere in this apartment. And when I do find it, I shall not leave it in a place vulnerable to your avaricious reach.”

“Insolent girl! Valuable as the statuette is, I do not prize it for its pecuniary worth alone.”

“You believe, as Lady Anne did, that it brings good fortune to mothers?”

“Of course not! That is absolute rubbish—Popish idolatry! Anne must have misunderstood whatever it was that our mother told her about the statuette. No, I referred to its sentimental value.”

“Naturally. Whatever was I thinking?”

“Do not adopt sarcasm with me.”

“Do not enter my apartment under the misapprehension that you have license to take or examine anything within it. In fact, do not enter it again at all.”

“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. Elizabeth 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.