“No, not consecrated. But inspired by her. All of the flowers within Our Lady’s garden are associated with Mary — Madonna lilies, roses, lilies of the valley, cornflowers...”
She recalled Mrs. Tilney’s reference to lilies of the valley as Our Lady’s Tears, and enquired about the cornflowers.
“They are also known as Mary’s Crown,” he said.
“And the morning glories?”
“Our Lady’s Mantle.”
“Marigolds? Oh — allow me to guess. Mary’s Gold?”
He smiled. “That is a simple one.”
She could have quizzed him further — she felt as if she had stumbled upon a hidden code, and looked forward to discovering more as spring and summer brought the garden into full bloom. “Are there many others?”
“I wager I could name near a hundred. We did not use that many in the south garden, of course — Lady Anne selected her favorites from among the flowers she had seen in the Mary garden at Northanger Abbey. That garden has existed since the nuns were there, and its beauty saved it from significant changes by later owners.”
“I wonder that during the Dissolution, a garden devoted to Mary was not uprooted on principle.”
“Mrs. Tilney said that statues and other obvious objects in the garden had been confiscated. But most people do not know the symbolic names of all the flowers it contained, so their association went unnoticed. To the unfamiliar, it was merely a pretty garden. Mrs. Tilney herself did not realize upon first coming to Northanger that the abbey’s former Mary garden yet held connections to the Virgin. But she knew something of flowers, and after spending much time in the garden, became curious enough to learn more. When Lady Anne found the garden at Northanger very peaceful, Mrs. Tilney revealed its connections.”
“Did Lady Anne name her garden?”
“Her ladyship desired that her own garden’s connection also be subtle. Though between ourselves we at times called it ‘Our Lady’s garden,’ to everyone else it was simply the south garden, or Lady Anne’s garden.”
“Yet you called it ‘Our Lady’s garden’ with me.”
“I had not even realized I had done so until you drew my attention to the fact. I suppose there is a quality in you that reminds me of her.”
They reached the greenhouse. “I shall just go inside and fetch the Madonna lily for Miss Darcy,” Mr. Flynn said, and smiled. He remained within quite some time, prompting Elizabeth to wonder what took him so long.
When he at last emerged, he was no longer smiling.
“I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may perhaps have sometimes spoken my opinion of him, and to him, too freely.”
Darcy waited impatiently in the corner of the Boar’s Head common room. He had been informed that the inn was a popular gathering place for officers stationed in Newcastle, and that it enjoyed the patronage of one soldier of particular interest to him. Mr. Wickham had not yet entered the public house, but Darcy had been assured that his eventual arrival could be relied upon with a measure of certainty normally reserved for death and the likelihood of fog in London.
He might have saved himself wasted time by contacting Wickham to arrange a meeting, but Darcy wanted the advantage of surprise. Anticipation would allow the scoundrel to prepare his natural defenses — a scheming mind and forked tongue — before the interview. Better to catch him unawares if Darcy hoped to extract anything resembling truth.
And so he sat, slowly consuming a half-pint and watching the door. The room had been three-quarters empty upon his arrival, but had gradually crowded with redcoats who kept the young barmaid steadily occupied with ensuring their tankards never ran dry. She had a familiarness about her that Darcy attributed to her occupation — it often seemed that the same server waited upon the same patrons at every inn and tavern in England. If he had not seen her before, he had seen another girl like her, just as he had seen the officer whose mug she now filled.
At last, Mr. Wickham sauntered in, to a chorus of salutations. He approached a group of officers standing near the bar and immediately joined their jocular conversation. The barmaid also greeted him, offering a pint. Before she could deliver his beverage, Darcy approached from behind.
“Mr. Wickham.”
Wickham turned around. His face registered astonishment upon finding Darcy behind him.
“Mr. Darcy!” He recovered himself and continued smoothly, “What business brings you to Newcastle?”
The barmaid gave Wickham his tankard, placing a hand on his arm as she did so. Darcy’s gaze followed her as she walked away. He was reminded of the incident with the housemaid when Wickham had last intruded at Pemberley. He looked at Wickham pointedly. “I came to see how Lydia’s husband conducts himself.”
Wickham chuckled. “Most faithfully, I assure you. Can I help it if the ladies wish otherwise?”
Yes, he could help it. The worthless scapegrace could help a great many things. “I would have a word with you.”
Wickham took Darcy’s measure, his gaze sweeping Darcy from the brim of his hat to the tip of his walking stick, upon which it seemed to linger an overlong time until he finally met Darcy’s eyes once more.
“And which word would that be?”
“One I prefer to speak in private, if your comrades would excuse us.” He acknowledged Wickham’s companions with a slight bow.
“Why, Fitz, you intrigue me.” He studied Darcy’s face, but Darcy maintained his impassive expression despite the scrutiny and the baiting address. “Very well,” he said finally. “Meg? Might I use the back room to confer with my brother?”
Darcy inwardly flinched at the word “brother,” but betrayed no outward sign of the very response he knew Wickham had intended to provoke. The barmaid called back her consent and they stepped into a small area between the common room and the kitchen. It was empty of people, although through the doorway Darcy could see another girl, younger than Meg, stirring a pot. The din of the common room was slightly muted here, but still burbled steadily.
Wickham tossed back a swallow of ale and grinned. “Well?”
Darcy, abhorring the necessity of holding this interview with Wickham at all, did not prolong it with preliminaries. “Do you recall the day my sister was born?”
He smirked. “Which one?”
Darcy could not believe even Wickham had the effrontery to allude to his siblings who had not survived their own birth. He did not dignify the question with a response. “That day, you and I discovered a strongbox in the summerhouse of my mother’s garden.”
“Ah, yes — I recall that despite my reluctance to disturb the box, you were quite interested in proving your cleverness with locks.”
“We have no audience, Wickham. And therefore no need to recast events in light more favorable to you. We both know what transpired.”
He shrugged. “Apparently, our memories differ.”
“After we restored the box to the summerhouse, did you ever return for it?”
“Now, why would I do such a thing? It was not mine, after all.”
Darcy stopped speaking. Silence had the power to create discomfort, and could often provoke a response more effectively than words. Instead, he stared unwaveringly into Wickham’s eyes.
Wickham tried to match his gaze. But the obvious effort required revealed to Darcy the answer he sought.
“You
Wickham shifted his eyes, looking off toward the common room.
