North by Northanger

Sixteen

Elizabeth’s mind hovered in that state where dream and wakefulness merge and one cannot quite determine where one ends and the other begins. Images of infants and mothers, letters and locks, keys and chrysanthemums floated through her sleepy consciousness as the rest of her senses similarly teased her. She thought she heard a woman’s voice, felt a gentle touch on the back of her hand, smelled the summertime flowers of Lady Anne’s garden.

The scent of one flower in particular dominated the aromatic illusion. It was a pleasant scent, but unfavorable associations nagged as her foggy mind struggled to identify it. Several minutes passed before she recognized it as the same fragrance that had overwhelmed her as she’d argued with Lady Catherine. She groaned and tried to push Darcy’s aunt out of her otherwise agreeable fancies. It was just like Lady Catherine to intrude where she was least welcome, even Elizabeth’s dreams.

She opened her lids just enough to see that darkness yet cloaked the world. All Pemberley slumbered; even the servants had not yet risen. Only the infrequent pops of the diminishing fire broke the stillness. Despite the warmth provided by Darcy sleeping beside her, Elizabeth fought chill. She had never quite warmed up after yesterday’s prolonged outing, and now that the waning flames of the hearth no longer generated much heat, the room felt especially cold.

Loath to leave even the inadequate heat of her bed, but still less willing to shiver through the unknown number of hours that remained until morning, she reluctantly parted company with the covers and crept across the chamber to bank the fire. She added the fuel, then lingered before the fireplace to let the warmth seep into her bones.

The nearest window faced southeast. Lucy had not completely closed one of the shutters, and as Elizabeth stood she noticed the barest hint of light starting to permeate the landscape. Clouds still stretched across the sky, promising an All Hallows’ Day as grey and somber as had been All Hallows’ Eve.

Her chill diminished, she went to the window and pushed the shutter fully open. The south garden lay in the same sleepy state as the rest of the grounds, but she knew that with dawn approaching Mr. Flynn would soon enter it to prepare the chrysanthemums. Indeed, were Lady Anne still alive, she would have already been within its gates.

Movement within the garden — a figure passing along its paths — caught her gaze. The garden walls and yew trees within its perimeter prevented her from obtaining more than a fleeting glimpse, and the faintness of the light further limited her view, but she presumed the head gardener had reported for duty. A desire to join him possessed her. If Lady Anne could not lay blooms on those three little graves herself, Elizabeth would do it for her. As the sun rose.

She dressed quickly and headed out. A surprised Lucy encountered her leaving her dressing room.

“You are awake early this morning, Mrs. Darcy.”

She did not wish to reveal her errand to the servant, but neither did she want anyone to worry about her. “I could not sleep. Should Mr. Darcy enquire, tell him I thought I would enjoy the sunrise.”

Upon reaching the garden, she found three bouquets of chrysanthemums, tied with ribbons, waiting at the base of a small statue. Mr. Flynn, however, was nowhere about. She glanced at the sky. The clouds had thinned at the eastern horizon, and those closest to the ground had a pinkish cast. Sunrise rapidly approached. If she were to reach the family graves before the sun broke across the horizon, she would have to go very soon. Though she hesitated to take the flowers without the gardener’s knowledge — surely he would wonder what had happened to them upon his return — she picked up the bouquets.

She walked briskly to the churchyard where the Darcy family had buried its dead for generations. While the church that served the estate and nearby village stood near the house, she had been in the cemetery only once before, when Darcy had shown her his parents’ final resting places during her early days at Pemberley. She easily identified the monument that marked Lady Anne’s grave, and knew that his infant siblings lay close beside their mother.

She found the three little headstones: Gregory, Maria, and Faith. The inscriptions of each grey marble slab revealed ages heartbreakingly short — a day of life, an hour, a moment. Each bore a portion of verse from the Gospels. With a silent prayer for all three souls, Elizabeth laid the flowers on the small graves. Just as she placed the final bouquet, the first streak of daylight illuminated the markers.

The brilliant shaft brought out every subtle hue of the marble. Light and dark gradations became more pronounced, and the angle of the light defined the engraved epitaphs even more boldly. But beneath the inscriptions she had read before, a tiny word, previously unnoticed, appeared at the bottom of each headstone. Across the three markers they read, “Love conquers all.”

So faint they were almost indiscernible, the three words appeared for but a minute against the pattern of each stone. When the angle of the climbing sun shifted, they faded altogether from view.

Elizabeth peered closely at the markers, trailed her fingers over the now-invisible words. The engravings were so small, so shallow, their strokes so thin that she could not feel any variance in the surface of the stone. Had she not been here precisely when sunrise broke, she never would have detected the words. Running as they did across all three headstones, they must have been inscribed sometime after the last of the three children, Faith, had been laid to rest.

She studied Lady Anne’s memorial, read the epitaph that bespoke the heartache Darcy’s father had suffered at her loss. This marker too bore the words “love conquers all,” but carved boldly into the marble. Elizabeth recalled that the words had also appeared in Lady Anne’s letter to her. She had interpreted the line as a general expression of encouragement — perhaps written as much for the author’s sake as the reader’s as she faced her final trial. But now Elizabeth wondered at the connection between the words in the letter and the words on the headstones.

The subject occupied her thoughts throughout her walk back to the south garden, where she found Mr. Flynn just entering the gate. He carried a box of gardening tools and appeared freshly dressed; though she knew he had been working since before dawn, no dirt or other signs of labor yet streaked his clothing.

She hailed him, and he waited for her to pass through the gate.

“I hope I did not bewilder you when you discovered the chrysanthemum bouquets gone this morning,” she said as they walked together toward the garden’s interior. “I would have told you I was taking them to the cemetery, but I did not see you about.”

Mr. Flynn appeared confused. He started to speak, stopped, and made a second attempt. “I was not about, ma’am. Mr. Darcy requested all the flowers be ready at noon, so I am only just now coming to prepare them.”

“But—” Now Elizabeth regarded the gardener in puzzlement. “But from my window I saw someone in here before dawn, and when I reached the garden, three bouquets were waiting.”

“ ‘Twas not my doing, ma’am.”

“That is certainly curious. If you did not leave them, who did?”

A twinkle entered his clear blue eyes. “My da might have said a garden sprite, being as last night was All Hallows’ Eve,” he said. “But I suspect one of my assistants decided to spare my old bones a little work. They all think I’m too old to be up working before the sun, though not a one of them would be so bold as to tell me directly.”

He surveyed the chrysanthemums, chose a grouping of plants, and settled down to his task.

“May I help?” she offered.

“You already have,” he said. “It might not be my place to say so, ma’am, but I expect her ladyship appreciated your being there at sunrise.”

Elizabeth returned to the house to find Darcy already dressed and breakfasting. Generally an early riser, he had become even more so since arriving home from Gloucestershire. She knew the unsettled state of affairs involving Northanger caused him restlessness that interfered with his sleep. Either that, or he wanted to be clear of the breakfast room before Lady Catherine entered it.

“I was wondering where you had hidden yourself this morning,” he said when he saw her.

“Did not Lucy tell you?”

“I did not ask her.”

As the room was empty of anyone save him, she kissed his cheek before heading to the sideboard. The morning’s activities and unusually early start had left her famished. “I awoke with the sudden urge to beg your aunt’s permission to name our child after her. I rousted her from bed to make my supplication, and was rewarded not only with her consent, but with pledges of her everlasting regard and affection for me. We have been closeted together these several hours planning her permanent residence at Pemberley so that we need never part.”

She sat down beside him, and he covered her left hand with his. “As credible as I find your explanation, I believe you instead have been out walking again.”

“How did you know?”

“Your eyes are brightened by the exercise. And your fingers are cold.”

She snatched her hand away. “Here I thought you were being tender. You only wanted to gather evidence.”

“There is also a flower petal in your hair.” He removed the yellow floret and set it on the table. “Chrysanthemum?”

“I laid flowers on the graves of your siblings this morning.” She watched his countenance as she spoke. “I hope I did not overstep?”

“No,” he said quietly. “In fact, I am pleased that you wanted to do so. As matriarch of the Darcy family, you ought to take part in all our traditions. I should have told you of today’s observance myself. How did you come to learn of it?”

“Mr. Flynn.”

“Of course. You said you went to my mother’s garden yesterday.” He continued eating his breakfast. “Speaking of my mother, I have asked Mrs. Reynolds about her correspondence, and she believes it went to one of the attics in a trunk. Would you like it brought down?”

“Yes — to my dressing room.” There she could read through it without fear of intrusion by Lady Catherine. “Would you care to read the letters with me?”

“I can join you this afternoon, but I must spend the morning in conference with Mr. Clarke regarding the harvest feast.”

Mr. Clarke likely needed as little instruction in the feast preparations as Mrs. Reynolds had — indeed, the servants were so well versed in their responsibilities that Elizabeth had felt more like a guest than the hostess when she had reviewed the details with the staff. She looked forward to the celebration as a welcome distraction from recent events in Gloucestershire. And from their current houseguest.

“Have you many particulars yet to settle?”

“Mr. Clarke has everything in order — I just want to review it all before Mr. Harper arrives. An express came while you were out, advising us to expect him on the morrow.”

“Thank goodness. I suppose neither Mr. Clarke nor I shall see much of you while Mr. Harper is at Pemberley?”

“Yes, although once we confer, he is of most use to me in Gloucestershire and London, where he can build our case and engage a barrister to argue for us in court, if it comes to that.”

“Perhaps he can also persuade Mr. Melbourne that this custody arrangement with Lady Catherine is entirely unnecessary.”

“I thought you had become intimate friends?”

“An intimacy best enjoyed from a distance.”

Though he had finished his own breakfast, Darcy remained in the room with her until she finished hers. She was happy for his companionship, as she felt as if she had not seen much of him since their return to Pemberley. When her appetite — both for food and for his conversation — was appeased, he rose.

“You will accompany me and Georgiana at noon, then?”

“I would not miss it.”

After spending an hour in her morning room, she made her way back to their apartment. Mrs. Reynolds stopped her in the hall. “I have just spoken to Mr. Darcy. Lady Anne’s papers are being brought to your dressing room now, ma’am.”

“Already? Thank you.”

“Ma’am?” She paused. “You did want all of her correspondence delivered there?”

“Yes, all of it.” The unusually early start to her day had left her with several unoccupied hours until noon, and she looked forward to leisurely perusing the letters.

“Very good, ma’am. I just wanted to be certain.”

“Nine?”

Elizabeth regarded her dressing room in astonishment. Or rather, what had once been her dressing room. It now resembled a coachyard full of luggage.

“There are two more trunks still in the attic, ma’am,” said one of the footmen as he and a partner set their most recent burden on the floor.

“Leave them there for now, or I shall not be able to cross the room.”

Indeed, when the men left, she barely had space to shut the door. Nine trunks, and more upstairs yet.

She lifted the lid of one and found it full of letters. How many letters could fit inside a trunk? One hundred? Three? This was not a task to be undertaken without reinforcements. Hearing sounds of movement in her bedroom, she maneuvered her way to that door. A housemaid tidied the chamber.

“Do you know whether Miss Darcy has risen?” Elizabeth asked.

The maid paused in sweeping the carpet. “I believe Miss Darcy is with her aunt, ma’am.”

Elizabeth had no desire to interrupt that tête-à-tête. She would seek Georgiana later.

“Is there anything else, ma’am?”

“No. Yes — I do not believe I have seen you before.”

“Just started recently, ma’am. Name’s Jenny.” She spoke in an accent that sounded even more northern than the Derbyshire inflections to which Elizabeth was becoming accustomed.

“Are you far from home?”

“A ways, ma’am. But happy to be here.”

Elizabeth offered her a smile. “Welcome to Pemberley, Jenny.”

With a deep breath, she turned back to the dressing room. Nine trunks, each likely containing hundreds of letters. Where did one begin?

“Jenny, when you have finished with the bedchamber, I believe I shall need some tea.”