So he could disregard her even more efficiently? “This would all be much pleasanter if you would consider me a patient instead of an inconvenience.”
He looked at her coldly. “Fortunately, Mrs. Darcy, I am grown used to the temperamental outbursts of women in your condition.” He shut his bag and prepared to leave. “Restrict yourself to the house. No walks. Except for moving from one room to another, remain seated so as not to tax the leg.”
“For how long?”
“Until after your lying-in.”
She put a hand to the base of her spine and stretched her back. Already, she had grown uncomfortable maintaining one position. How could she sit still for weeks?
“Sitting for prolonged periods causes its own discomforts. Might I at least stroll in the gallery with care? Mrs. Godwin advised—”
“Mrs. who?”
“The midwife.”
“You have been consulting some uneducated gossip again?”
“Our apothecary is away, and I desired counsel while waiting for you to arrive.”
“Now that I have come, you can dismiss whatever ignorant advice she provided.”
“She merely said that—”
“In fact, Mrs. Darcy, to avoid your having to call upon her, or me, again between now and the day you are brought to bed, I order you to take to your bed now. That should prevent you from experiencing the numbness or any other problems.”
“I am to remain in bed for weeks before my child is even born?”
“Yes. You—” He addressed Lucy. “Assist your mistress into bed.”
“But I do not want to go to bed. I—”
“Do you want something to happen to that child?” The indifference in his voice indicated that he personally did not care whether a mishap occurred or not.
Her hand dropped to her belly — whether to instinctively protect her daughter from the suggestion or the physician himself, she was unsure. “Of course not.”
“Then do not endanger it with foolish resistance to the best medical advice available to you.” He abruptly turned his back and left.
In the heavy silence that followed, Lucy approached. “Shall I help you into—”
“No!”
Elizabeth immediately regretted the outburst. It was Dr. Severn who had deserved it. She apologized to the maid.
“It is not my place to say so, Mrs. Darcy, but if I were headed for childbed, that man is the last person I would want helping me.”
Elizabeth was inclined to agree. Dr. Severn was an arrogant misogynist. He made her feel small. His latest advice seemed motivated more by his own convenience than her well-being. Yet he was an authority whose expertise she needed. Her hand stroked the baby. Did she dare violate his instructions?
She no longer trusted her own instincts. Frustration, anxiety, fatigue — not just from the interview, but the accumulation of months — overwhelmed her.
“Forgive my saying so, ma’am, but you do look tired. Perhaps a nap might restore you.”
“Perhaps.”
She allowed Lucy to lead her to the bedchamber. Though she had surrendered the Madonna lily to Mr. Flynn days ago and its scent had receded soon after, the intoxicating perfume seemed to hang strong in the air once more.
Lucy sneezed. “My — I think Jenny overdid it.”
“Overdid what?”
“I saw her remove a bottle of toilet water from the stillroom. She must have sprinkled it on the sheets.”
Elizabeth found the scent soothing. She would have to thank the housemaid for her thoughtfulness.
Lucy settled her into bed, but she sat up almost as soon as the maid left the room. She was too agitated to rest. Dr. Severn expected her to spend all her waking hours this way for the remainder of her pregnancy? Boredom would drive her mad. How many hours could one sit and stare at the same paneled wall?
At least it was an interesting wall, with carvings of leaves and birds standing out in relief. The pattern drew the eye from one figure to the next. Having nothing better to do, she allowed her gaze to rest on each image and was struck by the level of detail. Some long-ago artisan had expended considerable time and skill to surround her with beauty she had never before appreciated.
Each repetition of the pattern formed an exact duplicate, save one. On the panel directly across from the bed, a turtledove’s wing cocked at an odd angle. She rose from bed for a closer look. Apparently, the wing had separated from the rest of the carving at some time in the past, and had been reaffixed with a small nail. The nail, however, was not perfectly centered, nor quite as wide as the hole surrounding it, so the wing had slipped askew — revealing a small keyhole.
And she knew just the key to try.
With steps as brisk as she could manage, she went to her escritoire for the key that had fallen from Lady Anne’s desk. She found it beneath the small stack of Helen Tilney’s letters.
She paused a moment. She’d misplaced those letters, had she not? Now here they were, precisely where she had last seen them.
She would not contemplate her forgetfulness just now. Key in hand, she eagerly returned to the bedchamber. The key slid perfectly into the small hole, and as she turned it she heard a soft click.
The panel sprang open to reveal a shallow niche in the wall. Within rested a small, leatherbound book. She removed the volume and opened it to the first page.
Familiar handwriting met her gaze.
“My father... had the highest opinion of him... As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner.”
The old shopkeeper took the cane from Darcy. He held it in the light and examined it from grip to tip with the familiar touch of a craftsman. His fingers ran down its length until they reached the imperfection in the grain.
“Yes, this is my work. Made it — oh, must be ten, twelve years ago? I remember this little flaw. The gentleman who bought the walking stick hesitated over the purchase — said it was a gift for someone very dear to him and he wanted perfection. I explained that the beauty of wood lies in its variances.” He chuckled. “Like people.”
Darcy accepted the walking stick back. The detour to Bath had proven worthwhile if only to hear the paraphrase of his father’s words about him. But he hoped to obtain more valuable information. “Have you made a similar cane recently? One with a hidden compartment?”
The shopkeeper regarded Darcy warily.
“My interest is in the purchaser, not the creator,” Darcy said.
“Some years back, another gentleman came in here. Said he admired a walking stick bought here and was determined to have one just like it. Described this one perfectly. Then he asked if I could fashion his with a hollow center. He claimed it was for brandy.”
“If he commissioned the walking stick, he must have left his name.”
“He did. Let me see. It was Derby — no, Darcy. George Darcy.”
“You must be mistaken. That was my father’s name.” Darcy held forward his own cane once more. “The man who purchased this walking stick.”
