“What did you do with the box? Where is it now?”
“Damned if I know!” He finally returned his gaze to Darcy. “Yes, I went back. I planned to try my luck with the lock once more, and break it if I could not determine the combination. But as I was leaving the summerhouse, that old crosspatch Flynn came upon me. He gave me a wigging and took the box.” He shrugged. “I do not know what happened to it after that. I sneaked back into the summerhouse a few times, but never found it in its place again. The old man probably stole it for himself.”
He took another swig from his tankard and studied Darcy’s countenance. “Why these questions now, Darcy? That box, whatever happened to it, is long gone.”
“Yes, it is.” If Mr. Flynn confiscated the strongbox, Darcy trusted that the gardener had disposed of it responsibly. When he returned to Pemberley, he had only to ask the longtime servant its whereabouts. Wickham, however, did not need to know anything further about the matter.
Wickham drained his mug. “My tankard is dry. Have we finished reminiscing?”
“Indeed. We have quite done.”
Darcy’s gaze followed Wickham as he strolled through the doorway to the common room, threaded his way though the crowd to rejoin his comrades, and accepted another pint from the accommodating Meg. He did not wish to witness more. What he did not know about Lydia’s husband, he would not have to withhold from Elizabeth.
The kitchen girl passed through, balancing three steaming bowls of a mixture his nose guessed to be mutton stew. Darcy started to make his exit behind her. As she reached the doorway to the common room, he looked past her to see the inn’s outside door admit yet another person into the close quarters. A woman whose appearance so startled him that he gasped.
Dorothy.
No sooner did he identify Northanger Abbey’s false housekeeper than she, happening to glance his way, caught sight of him. Her eyes widened in recognition.
He hastened to get around the kitchen girl, but she, oblivious to his urgency, blocked his path. Dorothy turned and fled out the door.
Just as the serving girl cleared the doorway, one of the patrons roguishly slapped her backside. The unanticipated prank caused her to drop the pewter bowls. Hot gravy and chunks of overcooked vegetables splattered across the floor.
By the time he got around the mess and stepped outside, he found exactly what he expected.
Dorothy was gone.
We live entirely in the dressing room now, which I like very much; I always feel so much more elegant in it than in the parlour.
Though sunlight streamed through the open shutters, it was the sounds of movement in her dressing room that woke Elizabeth. Still half asleep, she lay in bed listening, attempting to determine whether the noises were genuine or a continuation of the illusion she had experienced during the night.
She had dreamed of Lady Anne. In her imagination, Darcy’s mother had come to her chamber carrying an infant wrapped in Mrs. Tilney’s quilt. The image had seemed so real that Elizabeth had actually risen from bed to follow her into the dressing room, but only the fragrance of the Madonna lily and its ghostly white flowers gleaming in the moonlight had greeted her.
Afterward, she had been unable to return to sleep. Her now quite rounded belly prevented her from settling into a comfortable position. Within her, the baby had woken and decided that midnight was the perfect hour at which to perform a country dance. No longer producing only occasional light flutterings, the child moved constantly now, often keeping her awake with nocturnal gymnastics even Darcy could feel — when he was home. Apparently, their daughter was blissfully unaware of Dr. Severn’s prohibition against prolonged exertion.
And so she had lain awake, alone in her bedchamber but with an entire host of visitors inhabiting her thoughts: Lady Anne and George Darcy, General and Mrs. Tilney, Henry and the mysterious Frederick Tilney, Wickham, Lady Catherine, Mr. Flynn... Though some of the figures lived in the present, her mind was most occupied with people and events of the past. If only she and Darcy could find Lady Anne’s ivory, perhaps they could put some of the shades to rest and look toward the future.
It seemed she had just fallen back asleep when the noises in the next room intruded upon her consciousness. She assumed Lucy was in there preparing her morning toilette, but normally her maid performed her duties so quietly that her presence went unnoticed unless Elizabeth was already awake.
And normally her duties did not include opening a creaking chest lid.
At the telltale sound, Elizabeth hastened from bed and opened the door to the dressing room. The lid of the trunk fell shut with a
“It is about time you rose,” her ladyship declared. “Did you intend to lie about all morning?”
Lady Catherine’s audacity temporarily stunned Elizabeth into speechlessness. She had just caught Darcy’s aunt intruding where she had no business, and somehow
“Lady Catherine, I do not recall inviting you to my private apartment. Further, I do not recall inviting you to make yourself free in it.”
“I am here for an explanation, Mrs. Darcy.”
“And you hoped to find it in that trunk?”
Her ladyship drew herself up indignantly. “I hoped to find you prepared to account for the mischief visited upon me this morning.”
“What mischief might that be?”
Lady Catherine thrust a handful of withered flower petals toward her. Ugly brown stains mottled the once- white edges. “I found these scattered on the floor of my bedchamber when I awoke. And the room absolutely reeked of lilies.”
At the sight of the petals, Elizabeth’s gaze immediately shifted to the Madonna lily beside the window. Though it had been perfectly intact last night, now one of its flowers was missing. Its petals, however, had been perfectly white and were unlikely to have completely deteriorated so quickly. Had Lady Catherine’s petals come from another source?
When Mr. Flynn had gone to retrieve Lady Anne’s lily for Georgiana, he had discovered it missing. The succeeding four days had evinced no sign of it — until this morning. The thief must have left the dead petals for Lady Catherine, but Elizabeth could not guess the prankster’s identity. Before now, her ruminations had led her to consider Lady Catherine a likely candidate for having stolen the bloom, as her ladyship seemed to take proprietary interest in anything related to her sister. If Lady Anne was to be remembered with a lily, Lady Catherine would covet one, too. But unless Darcy’s aunt presently enacted an elaborate ruse, this development left Elizabeth without another suspect.
“I cannot explain them.”
“Do not pretend ignorance. Madonna lilies are well out of season, yet the housekeeper delivered that one to you early this week. From where else could these petals have come?”
The question sparked nervousness within her. If Darcy’s aunt knew she had received the lily several days ago, how closely did Lady Catherine monitor her apartment and her movements? Darcy was still away from Pemberley — did she suspect his absence? Or was her surveillance motivated only by their race to locate Lady Anne’s ivory?
“As you can see, the petals on my lily suffer no deterioration such as those exhibit.” Thankfully, as later today she would give the flower to Mr. Flynn as a substitute for the one intended for Lady Anne’s grave. “Those petals
