North by Northanger

allow him, his greatest value to the estate lay in the knowledge and experience with which he directed his undergardeners.

She walked toward him. He saw her approaching and started to rise, but she stayed him with a gesture. “Would not an assistant speed your task?”

“I always tend our lady’s garden myself, ma’am. Lady Anne and I planned it and planted it together; somehow, it doesn’t seem right for anyone else to work in it.”

Our lady’s garden. Even after nearly two decades, the servant spoke of Lady Anne as if she were Pemberley’s mistress still. But somehow, coming from Mr. Flynn, or perhaps in the wake of her own happiness, the words did not bother her.

“Her ladyship certainly left her garden in good keeping,” she said.

He wiped his gnarled hands on a rag so streaked with dirt that Elizabeth debated whether he removed or added to that on his fingers. “I suppose, though, it’s time I trained somebody to take over for me.” He released a weary sigh. “I know I’m slowing down. It’s time I admitted these old bones don’t have too many seasons left.”

“Perhaps tomorrow someone can help you with this task.”

“Oh, not tomorrow, ma’am. Tomorrow is the first of November. All Hallows’ Day. The chrysanthemums must be prepared for placing on the family graves, and I’ll do that myself until I lie in one of my own.”

She had heard of people in some predominantly Catholic countries acknowledging All Saints’ Day by placing flowers on graves, but not in England. She had not realized her husband’s family followed the tradition.

“Do you lay the flowers now?”

“Only when neither the master nor Miss Darcy are at home. Lady Anne began the tradition at Pemberley the year — well, the first year she lost a babe. She used to lay bouquets of hothouse flowers, until the year we introduced the chrysanthemums to her garden. She would lay the flowers herself, accompanied by young Master Darcy from the time he was old enough to walk. The graves of her own children, though — those she visited alone. She would rise before dawn, cut the blooms with her own hands, and fair cover the three little graves with flowers as the sun rose.”

This image of Lady Anne struck Elizabeth with surprising force. Lady Anne had been held before her as such a paragon that Elizabeth had not devoted much thought to her deeper feelings. I cannot bear to bury another, she had written. Now, having just experienced for herself the wonder of sensing a life growing within her, Elizabeth felt a sympathy for Lady Anne that had not touched her before.

She shivered. Mr. Flynn struggled to his feet.

“If you will pardon my saying so, ma’am, you look cold through. May I walk you back to the house?”

She accepted his advice but not his offer of escort, as she did not want to cause the elderly servant undue exertion on her account. Once more indoors, she returned to her morning room and was pleased to find it empty. Lady Catherine had apparently settled elsewhere in the house for the remainder of the afternoon. Or she had embarked on an inspection of every room and closet of Pemberley to determine whether Elizabeth had dared move any other pieces of furniture.

Key still in hand, she withdrew Lady Anne’s letter from the desk and reread it. The words struck her more personally this time, stirred a stronger response within her. She wanted to reach back through the years and succor the writer, locate whatever it was she so desperately wanted and bring it to her.

But what on earth had Lady Anne lost? A maternal heirloom, hidden “too well.” That could mean anything.

She glanced at the key again. Was it related to the present puzzle, or merely another curious find on a day full of discoveries?

Search for me. That seemed the place to begin — not seeking on behalf of Lady Anne, but to uncover the woman herself, to identify the person her mother-in-law had truly been beyond the image everyone remembered. If Elizabeth were ever to know what sort of object the former mistress of Pemberley had valued so highly and exhorted her to find, she would have to know more about Lady Anne Fitzwilliam Darcy.

“There you are.” Darcy’s voice drew her attention to the doorway. “My aunt informed me of your abrupt removal, and I was grown concerned by its length.”

“I went for a walk.”

“To London?”

“No, to the south garden. Though when I departed the house, I think I was vexed enough to march at least as far as London.”

He entered and came to her side. “If it provides any consolation, you left Lady Catherine so incensed that she declares she will not leave her chamber until you apologize.”

“Truly?”

He laughed at her expression. “Do not look so delighted.”

“Had I known relief could be obtained so easily—”

“Elizabeth!”

“You are right; it cannot last. She must emerge eventually.”

“Has it been so very intolerable?”

“I have been accused of thrift where I should be liberal and extravagance where I should exercise economy. I manage my servants ill, my time even worse, and if I have not already embarrassed myself as a hostess before the neighbors, I should consider myself fortunate.”

“I had been meaning to speak to you about that last point. You really must refrain from resting your feet on the table when the Devonshires come to dine.”

She shrugged. “As her ladyship perpetually reminds me, I simply cannot escape my common upbringing. Satisfy yourself that I have ceased hanging laundry in the sculpture gallery.”

His countenance and manner became more serious. “Does she speak of nothing but your deficiencies?”

“I possess them in sufficient quantity that they alone could occupy her indefinitely, but she also offers her opinions on any subject that comes to mind. A need or condition does not exist for which her ladyship lacks a better prescription than that in current use. She has rattled off receipts for everything from preserving cut flowers to repelling moths.”

“So essentially, my aunt conducts herself as usual.”

He pulled a chair to the side of the desk and sat down near her. “Forgive me. I did not mean for the full burden of entertaining her to fall upon you while I attended to other matters. Has not Georgiana helped divert her?”

“Georgiana has earned my eternal gratitude for her efforts, but your sister is no match for Lady Catherine. I doubt that successfully managing her ladyship lies within the power of any sole person. And as for the other matters commanding your attention, I would much rather you spend your time preparing to meet with Mr. Harper when he arrives than listen to Lady Catherine’s discourse. I can handle your aunt.”

His gaze fell upon the note in her hand. “You are rereading my mother’s letter?”

“I spent a fair amount of time in her garden today, and came away wishing to learn more about her. Do you happen to know whether she left behind any other correspondence?”

“Given the amount in which she engaged, one could presume so. Whether my father saved it is another matter, but my guess is that he did. When she died, he was so distraught that I cannot imagine his discarding anything that had passed through her hands.”

“Where might it be found now?”

“I was a boy. Mrs. Reynolds could best answer that.”

“May I read through it — if it can be found?”

“Indeed, I believe at least one of us ought to read through it. Perhaps we might chance upon a letter from Mrs. Tilney that could illuminate our experience at Northanger.”

“Have you heard from Henry Tilney?”

“I had a short report from him today. No new information, but he has not yet completed the enquiries we discussed. Once Mr. Harper and I have had a chance to confer, I intend to send him to Gloucestershire to work with Mr. Tilney.”

“You mean, to supervise Mr. Tilney.”

“To ensure all leads are followed.”

Elizabeth knew how difficult it was for Darcy to delegate such a critical matter to others rather than