North by Northanger

bloomed in summer she had them placed in nearly every room. This chamber and her morning room were practically filled with them. But I do not believe we have had one in the house since her death.”

Anne’s morning room — that was where she had smelled lilies. She had attributed the perfume to Lady Catherine, but come to think on it, she had not detected any fragrance on Darcy’s aunt since. She smiled to herself. That day had been All Hallows’ Eve. Perhaps the scent had been a ghostly afterglow.

Apparently, Lady Anne had received not one, but two gifts as a result of her friendship with Helen Tilney: a crib quilt, and a love of Madonna lilies that had lasted till the end of her days. “Mrs. Reynolds,” Elizabeth said suddenly, “you once told me you came to Pemberley when my husband was four years old. Were you here when Lady Anne was expecting her daughter Maria?”

“Aye, madam. I arrived just before her birth.”

“I understand she received a quilt at that time from her friend Mrs. Tilney. Do you know what became of it?”

“Oh, indeed, madam. After Maria’s death, Lady Anne packed it away. That was such a sad time, losing Maria, and then another baby and her friend Mrs. Tilney the following year. When she was expecting Miss Darcy, however, she brought the quilt out again. She did not want to use it for the new child — she felt it had been created for Maria — but she treasured it for the memories it held of her friend. She displayed it in the nursery, where it hung until Miss Darcy grew too old for that room. When the nursery fell into disuse, I stored it away again.”

“I should like to see it,” Elizabeth said.

“Of course. It is a lovely quilt, covered in flowers. Shall I bring it to you here, or would you like it rehung in the nursery?”

She thought a moment. “The nursery.”

“I shall do so directly, madam.”

Lucy arrived and helped her dress. Afterward, Graham appeared with Darcy’s breakfast and an assortment of unpleasant-looking concoctions. She invited him to dispose of the remedies in whatever manner he saw fit and to enjoy the food while allegedly attending his master — in other words, while standing watch over the empty bedchamber.

After breaking her own fast, Elizabeth went to the nursery, where she found the quilt hanging between two windows overlooking the south garden. She was struck by how many of Pemberley’s rooms central to Lady Anne’s life shared a view of the garden that had also meant so much to her, and felt certain the placement had been deliberate when the garden was created. But whereas Lady Anne’s apartment and morning room viewed the garden from an angle, the nursery aligned with it almost directly.

The quilt, as Mrs. Reynolds had declared, was indeed lovely. Its beautifully detailed blocks depicted a large central four-pointed rosette filled with flowers of numerous types against a white background stitched in a crosshatch pattern. Lilies, roses, morning glories, marigolds, and more were rendered in cheerful colors undiminished by the score of years that had passed since the quilt’s obviously loving creation. A larger version of each flower, with ivy interlacing them, formed the border.

An octagon of less vibrant hue occupied the very center of the rosette, with the outline of a lily stitched upon it. The grey object amid the riot of color gave Elizabeth a moment’s pause — until she glanced from the quilt to the window and back. The octagon was the summerhouse; the lily, the fountain. The entire quilt was a representation of Lady Anne’s garden.

Helen Tilney, who had helped Anne plant her garden and prepare for Maria’s birth during her visit to Pemberley, must have looked out this very nursery window. She had then carried the view home with her to create a baby quilt in its image. It was little wonder that despite her grief over the child for whom it had been intended, Lady Anne could not keep the quilt packed away from sight forever. Such a heartfelt gift was meant to be seen and used.

The Madonna lilies gracing one petal of the rosette reminded Elizabeth of the gift she had received from Mr. Flynn that morning. With a last admiring look at Helen Tilney’s handiwork, she went in search of the gardener. She found him in one of the hothouses instructing a boy of about twelve or thirteen as he transplanted a seedling to a larger pot.

So engrossed was Mr. Flynn in the lesson, that his apprentice noticed Elizabeth first. At the sight of Pemberley’s mistress, the boy became self-conscious and scattered soil across the table. Mr. Flynn glanced up, ascertained the cause of his distraction, and sent his pupil off to water yesterday’s transplants.

Wiping his hands on a rag, the master gardener acknowledged her and asked how he might be of service.

“I require nothing at present,” she said. “I merely came to thank you for the lily.”

“ ’Twas my pleasure, Mrs. Darcy. Now that Pemberley has a mistress once more, it seemed the house should also have Madonna lilies again.”

“It is an unexpected delight to enjoy the fragrance of summer in winter.”

“Lady Anne would have surrounded herself with lilies all the year through, if I could have provided them. While she lived, I tried to force the bulbs to produce blooms out of season, but never with success. She’s a temperamental flower, the Madonna. More particular than other lilies. But if you’re patient and care for her with love, she’ll respond in the end.” A twinkle entered his eye. “Like any lady, I suppose.”

Elizabeth smiled. “Obviously, you eventually mastered her, if you have lilies flowering now.”

“One cannot master her. When I stopped trying, and learned to accept her blooms as the heavenly gift they are, that is when she rewarded me. Each year since Lady Anne died, I have been able to leave a Madonna lily in full bloom upon her grave on the anniversary of her death.” An expression of uncertainty crossed his countenance. “Perhaps it is presumptuous of me to do so — I was but a servant to her.”

On the contrary, Elizabeth admired the gardener’s loyalty. “I think it a fitting tribute,” she assured him.

“I always try to force several bulbs in anticipation of the anniversary, but somehow only one thrives. This year, however, two plants flowered. Lady Anne will receive hers on Friday, but I thought perhaps Miss Darcy might enjoy it until then?”

“I am sure she would. Is it here? I can take it back to the house with me now.”

“No, it is in one of the other greenhouses. I shall go retrieve it.”

Elizabeth did not want to trouble the elderly man to bring it all the way back to her. “I will accompany you,” she offered. She also had a secondary motive for seeking out the gardener this morning.

“I understand,” she said as they walked, “that Lady Anne came to appreciate Madonna lilies through her friend Mrs. Tilney.”

“Aye. She returned from Northanger Abbey with her heart set on seeing their blooms at Pemberley. At first we grew them in the east garden.”

“Why?”

“The south did not yet exist — it was only an expanse of lawn. ’Twas Lady Anne’s idea to create a garden there, similar to Mrs. Tilney’s. She and her friend invested considerable thought in its plan — we were two years designing and building it — and it remains today almost exactly as she envisioned it. Most of the same flowers, though I have had to switch some of their beds over the years. The marigolds thrive much better in the south bed, and the violets prefer the north. We added the chrysanthemums her final year.”

“Lady Anne helped plant the garden herself?”

“She did. I never saw a lady more willing to dirty her hands — or at least, soil her gloves — than she was for that garden. Until her friend Mrs. Tilney came. Now that lady, she was all eagerness to feel the soil beneath her fingers. She came to the garden each day directly from breakfast, and one morning I actually found her at work when I arrived just after dawn. The two of them—” He shook his head in fond recollection. “Well, it was a pleasure to see Lady Anne so happy with her friend. I believe she enjoyed our lady’s garden all the more for the memories it held of Mrs. Tilney’s visit.”

Elizabeth suppressed a smile. “You still refer to it as ‘our lady’s garden,’ though Lady Anne has been gone these many years.”

He glanced at her in puzzlement. “Why would I not? Our Lady — Oh!” He stopped as comprehension caught up with him. “I refer not to Lady Anne, but to the Queen of Heaven.”

She was not confident she understood his meaning. “The garden is consecrated to the Blessed Virgin?”