North by Northanger

understand G. D. is already in town.

Yrs etc, A. Parker

Elizabeth stood, stretched, and rubbed her back. Save for a break at noon to lay the chrysanthemums with Darcy and Georgiana, she had done nothing all day but read through Lady Anne’s letters. Her predecessor at Pemberley had, it seemed, single-handedly kept half the postal workers in England employed. She had maintained regular communication with dozens of correspondents — kin, friends, social acquaintances — had received intermittent notes from still more, and had apparently saved every letter that entered the house. With this many letters coming in, Elizabeth could only imagine how many must have gone out. How had Lady Anne ever set down her pen long enough to have something to write about?

Most of the letters Elizabeth had read so far largely contained the minutiae of daily life. Should she actually read through each letter in the trunks, she would probably come away with an intimate knowledge of every genteel family in Derbyshire and many prominent members of London’s ton. Who had visited whom, who had become engaged, who had lately wed, who had been expecting, whose children had learned their alphabets, whose sons had left for Oxford, who had taken ill, who had just died.

As interesting a portrait as such news and gossip painted of the neighborhood — even if the details were over twenty years old — Elizabeth wished she could somehow read more of Lady Anne’s own letters, the ones she had written and to which this mountain of correspondence responded. She could infer some of their content from the replies Anne had received (“I am sorry to hear Fitzwilliam suffers such pain cutting his third tooth. Have you attempted lancing the gum?”), but such surmises lacked Anne’s voice.

She pushed a stray lock of hair away from her forehead with the back of her hand, careful not to touch her face or white cap with inkstained fingers. Just then, Darcy entered.

He met the spectacle of Elizabeth amid the sea of open trunks with bemusement. “When you told me earlier that my mother had left behind such a collection of letters, I did not fully comprehend its size.”

“It is a wonder your entire inheritance was not spent on postage.”

“Have you found anything of interest?”

“Plenty of interest, though nothing related to Northanger Abbey yet. If Lady Anne did correspond with Mrs. Tilney, however, the letters must be here somewhere.”

Darcy took off his coat. “Then let us devise a methodical plan for sorting through all of this.”

“From what I have managed to determine, the trunks are loosely organized by date. That is, most of a given year’s correspondence can be found in the same trunk, with some trunks holding multiple years. Your mother probably filled them gradually, storing the letters as they arrived and moving each trunk to the attic when it became full.”

“That would explain why Mrs. Reynolds recalled that one trunk of correspondence went up there when her personal effects were packed away, yet nine came down today.”

“Since we do not know when your mother and Mrs. Tilney formed their friendship, I began with the trunk that contained the oldest letters. They might be too old, however — most of them predate your parents’ marriage.”

“Perhaps, then, we ought to set aside that trunk at present and select another.”

“Do you not wish to read the opinions of your mother’s friends regarding their courtship?”

“I am not certain. Do I?”

“Most of them favored it. Lady Constance Richfield thought your father was terribly handsome, and so did Lady Amelia Parker. In fact, I just finished reading one of Lady Amelia’s letters.” She knelt down and retrieved a letter from one of several piles, then unfolded the note and skimmed to the middle. “Here it is—‘I am all impatience to hear whether G. D. has declared himself yet. If he does, you must prevail upon your father to grant his consent. Your parents might favor an alliance with Lord E. for his title, but D.’s fortune rivals that of the marquess and E. cannot match him for looks. Were D. half so handsome, I would still consider his countenance the most pleasing of any gentleman I know.’ ”

The praise elicited a smile from Darcy. “I did not realize my father held such attraction for the ladies in his youth. Though Lady Amelia could not have found Lord E.’s profile too displeasing, for she is now a marchioness and bears the name Everett.” He sat down beside her and picked up another letter. “What else have you found?”

“That one is from your aunt.” Elizabeth hesitated, unsure whether Darcy ought to learn the opinions Lady Catherine had expressed about his father before the marriage. The knowledge might further tax their already tense relationship.

He noted her expression. “Allow me to guess — my aunt offered different advice?” He opened the letter. “ ‘If you can form an alliance with a man of both title and fortune, you should do so. It is your duty to your family, yourself, and your progeny to marry as well as you can. Reports have reached my ears that on the eve of securing one of the country’s most eligible peers, you are encouraging the attention of a certain wealthy but untitled gentleman. Need I remind you that you are the daughter of an earl? Why settle for a mere gentleman when you could ally the Fitzwilliams with a man of both fortune and rank, as I have done? Do not argue that affection should be considered. Affection has no place in such an important decision as marriage.’ ”

“The view Lady Catherine expresses of your father in that letter varies radically from the manner in which she speaks of the Darcy family now. I wonder how much time passed before she resigned herself to the marriage?”

“Most likely, the day the engagement was announced. Though my father lacked a title, their marriage offered my mother and her family everything else they could desire in an alliance: fortune, land, and a connection with an old and worthy family. Once the decision had been made, Lady Catherine would have wasted little time cultivating the advantages of the connection.” He reached for another letter.

“I have already read through those. Perhaps you could start reading some from another trunk.”

“This one?” He slid forward a tooled leather chest about half the size of the others. “How old are these letters?”

She had not noticed the box before. “I cannot tell you. I must have overlooked that chest amid all the larger ones.”

He opened the box. Two sets of letters, each tied with ribbon, rested within. He untied one of the ribbons and picked up the top letter. “This is my father’s hand.” He fanned out the bundle. “All of them are.”

He untied the ribbon on the second packet. “And this is my mother’s writing. These are addressed to him.”

She opened several of Lady Anne’s letters and quickly skimmed the pages. Darcy did the same with his father’s.

“Love letters!” She whispered it like a secret. “Can you tell which is the oldest?”

“This one is dated the third of January, seventeen eighty-three. It is not exactly a love letter — it was written before their engagement, and is actually addressed to my uncle.”

I return herewith your sister’s volume of Chaucer, with gratitude for her having lent it to me. Please tell Lady Anne that at her behest, I reread the general prologue on my journey home, and find that her observations have enhanced my appreciation for the Tales. Whether that pleasure derives from the opinions themselves or the memory of the lively manner in which she delivered them, I cannot say. I shall, however, never again encounter Madame Eglentyne without recalling my visit to Riveton Hall. Nor shall I commit the error of expressing surprise that a friend’s younger sister has read the great poet. If Lady Anne will indulge me, I look forward to continuing our discussion when I join your party at Riveton between Hilary and Easter terms.

“Your father and uncle attended Cambridge together?” Elizabeth asked.

“Yes, that is how my parents met. My uncle brought a party of friends home with him one Christmas, my father among them. His first night there, he and my mother, who was a bit of a bluestocking, became engaged in a debate over something in The Canterbury Tales, to the amusement of all the gentlemen.”

“They fell in love over poetry?”

“I believe it was more the badinage between them than the topic. My father appreciated her quick wit and animated spirit.”