North by Northanger

Epilogue

A sweet perfume greeted Elizabeth and Darcy as they entered the south garden. It was a fine June day, and the Madonna lilies had just bloomed. Though Elizabeth often strolled with the baby in Lady Anne’s garden, at last she and Darcy could introduce their daughter to the flower whose name she bore.

Lily-Anne Darcy took only casual interest in her surroundings as her father held her up to admire the lilies. She had, after all, recently discovered her own hands, and celebrated this extraordinary event by spending a good portion of her waking hours attempting to stuff all of her fingers into her mouth at once. The nursery maid had apologized repeatedly for not yet managing to break her of the habit. Elizabeth and Darcy found the practice adorable.

Elizabeth broke off a single flower and brought it to Lily-Anne for closer inspection. The baby smiled, grabbed its stem tightly in her small fist, and waved it round.

“I believe she approves,” Darcy said. He looked to Elizabeth, but she yet observed their daughter.

“Rather too much. She is trying to eat it.”

He pried the flower from Lily-Anne’s fingers and returned it to Elizabeth. She tickled the baby’s cheek with its petals, eliciting smiles from both daughter and husband.

When Lily tired of the game, Darcy placed her in Elizabeth’s arms. “Unfortunately, I must leave now or I shall arrive late.”

“This is such a perfect day that I refuse to allow your errand to spoil it. So long as you do not return from the quarter sessions with the news that Mr. Wickham has been released into our custody, I shall be satisfied.”

Darcy shuddered at the very notion. “Responsibility for one child is enough.” He met her eyes. “For now” He kissed his wife, bade Lily- Anne behave for her mother, and departed.

Left alone with her daughter, Elizabeth walked round the garden. The marigolds were preparing to bloom, and the first violets of spring had appeared none the worse for having been temporarily displaced to retrieve the nine statuettes Helen Tilney had hidden. Henry Tilney and his wife had come in person to collect the ivories, and all had taken such pleasure in the visit that the couple extended it twice before finally returning to Gloucestershire. It appeared that in burying her treasure at Pemberley, Helen Tilney had also planted seeds of a friendship between the next generations of Tilneys and Darcys that would be cherished as much as the one she had enjoyed with Lady Anne. The Darcys looked forward to calling upon the Tilneys later in the year, and had been assured that, this time, they would experience a perfectly ordinary reception at Northanger Abbey.

She carried the baby to the alcove that had sheltered Lady Anne’s treasure for so many years. Despite the prominence of the summerhouse, Darcy’s mother had been correct about this more understated corner offering a superior view of the lilies. She had also been right about the glare of the sun upon the desk in the morning room; Elizabeth had finally conceded the point and had it moved back to its original position. Apparently, the new Mrs. Darcy still had much to learn, but she no longer found herself overshadowed by the memory of Darcy’s mother. Indeed, she had come to consider Lady Anne an ally.

The light breeze marshaled itself into a brief gust, carrying the scent of lilies even more strongly to her senses. A few dried leaves scudded into the alcove. A folded paper was among them.

“Lily, what have we found?” Elizabeth bent and retrieved the paper. It was a note in handwriting she now knew as well as her own.

My dear Mrs. Darcy,

My lifetime is ended; my days as Pemberley’s mistress, past. I commit words to paper once more because it now falls to you to carry on my legacy.

For two and a half centuries, a treasure passed from mother to daughter. By the time my own mother placed in my hands a small chest containing the Madonna ivory, it had long been assumed that the statuette was this treasure. It is not.

When I made my pilgrimage to the cathedral library, I discovered that among the many riches held by Northanger Abbey before the Dissolution, the greatest had been the one most humble in appearance: a relic of Mary, a portion of her mantle brought from the Holy Land during the Crusades. It is this relic, which enfolds the Mother and Child I inherited, that constitutes the true treasure handed down through generations — for those who hold it, if they be of faithful heart and worthy spirit, receive the gift of grace.

A treasure such as this cannot be possessed, only held, and to you I entrust its stewardship. I could not commend it to a better caretaker. Guard it well. And in time pass it to your daughter.

Now tend to your garden, Mrs. Darcy — to your life with Fitzwilliam and the children you will raise, your own precious lilies. And know that one who has gone before you watches fondly from above.

— A. D.

Elizabeth studied the note. It bore no date. From its opening, she presumed it had been written while Lady Anne lay dying. Yet she could not imagine Darcy’s mother exerting herself at such a time to pen a second letter to an unknown future daughter-in-law, let alone a note reflecting such serenity. Nor could she begin to account for its appearance in the garden, at this moment, blown in by the breath of summer.

Lily-Anne cooed, drawing her from reverie. The infant grasped her mother’s finger and smiled.

“My own precious Lily,” Elizabeth whispered. “Your grandmama practically called you by name. However did she know?”

Other phrases in the letter had suggested similar prescience. Either Lady Anne had seen what lay ahead, or her message had been composed more recently.

“Perhaps your grandmama’s presence here is even stronger than I realized,” she said. She made the sort of playful face that very young children somehow manage to elicit from otherwise dignified adults, to the glee of her daughter. Then she held up the baby so that they two were eye to eye. “What think you, Lily-Anne? Has your grandmama’s spirit been about?”

Lily smiled again. Then her gaze moved past Elizabeth’s shoulder and she giggled.

It was her daughter’s first true laugh. Elizabeth turned round to see what had captured her delight. But nothing was behind her.

Nothing but the breeze and the fragrance of lilies.