North by Northanger

Frederick, upon noticing your name in the Pump Room book, was reminded of the lost ivories. He invited us to Northanger to learn what he could about them and, if they were indeed at Pemberley, request their return.”

“And when he died before our meeting—”

“His mistress, having nothing but warm memories to show for her years of devotion to him, decided nine medieval statuettes would constitute fair payment if she could get her hands on them. She found someone to pose as Frederick long enough to meet us in his place. When the interview yielded nothing, she used your walking stick to smuggle the diamonds out of Northanger. If she could not have the ivories, she would console herself with jewels. What I cannot puzzle out, however, is how she obtained such a perfect copy of your cane in the short time we were at Northanger.”

“I believe the substitute walking stick was made some time earlier. The Bath merchant recalled crafting it eight years ago.”

“For whom?”

He set aside Mrs. Tilney’s letters. “The gentleman who commissioned it gave the name George Darcy.”

“Your father?”

“No. The purchaser was too young to be my father. The shopkeeper said he was a university student.”

“A gentleman at university in ought-four... That would make him about your age. But who would take such liberty with the name George Darcy? I cannot conceive of anyone’s attempting to conduct legitimate business in another man’s name, except perhaps his son.”

“Or godson.”

Her eyes lit with sudden realization. “Mr. George Wickham.”

“My father financed his education. Wickham may well have ordered the cane and sent the bill to Pemberley. I doubt my father knew, however, that it so closely resembled mine. I myself am uncertain why Wickham would want a walking stick identical to one I possessed.”

“Envy. He wants what you have. Even now, after all your family has done for him, he still believes himself entitled to more. If he could not be a Darcy, he could own a walking stick adorned with the Darcy cinquefoil.” She drew her brows together. “Of course, now we must explain how the cane found its way to Northanger Abbey. Mr. Wickham cannot have been Frederick’s imposter — we know him too well. Even disguised by the bandages, we would have recognized his voice and manner.”

“Wickham was stationed in Newcastle for a year before Captain Tilney’s death, and he frequents the inn where I saw Mrs. Stanford. I have no doubt of their acquaintance, only the extent of Wickham’s involvement in Mrs. Stanford’s scheme.”

“Lydia revealed that they have accumulated considerable debt again. He may have simply sold the cane to help satisfy his creditors.”

“I believe another interview with Wickham is in order.”

“You are not going to Newcastle again?”

“No. It will have to take place here.” Though he loathed the very thought of Wickham coming to Pemberley, he would not leave Elizabeth with her time so near.

“What did Mr. Wickham say during your last meeting? Did he offer any information about your mother’s strongbox?”

“He confessed to returning for it, but said Mr. Flynn caught him and confiscated it. I shall speak to the gardener about it on the morrow.”

“May I? You are indentured to your aunt after breakfast, and heaven only knows how long she will keep you. Too, if he does produce the casket, I should like to bring it in here while Lady Catherine is otherwise occupied.”

“Very well.”

“I hope he does indeed know where the ivory can be found. I must admit, Darcy — I should like to have it with me when our daughter is born. It lent your mother such confidence, and I could use a little more at present.”

Something in her voice made him uneasy. “Have you and the child been well?”

“It is nothing over which to panic, but we did summon Dr. Severn in your absence. My right leg gave me a bit of trouble.”

Dread crept over him. “What sort of trouble?”

“It fell numb for a short period.” At his indication of alarm, she continued quickly. “Mrs. Godwin assured me that she has known other mothers to experience the same problem, with no ill effect on them or their babies.”

“What did Dr. Severn say?”

“To walk less and sit more.”

“And have you followed his instructions?”

“Yes. Though Darcy, I must say, he was most unpleasant throughout the visit. He is due to return this week and stay until I am brought to bed, and I do not know how I will tolerate him.”

Darcy himself found the physician’s arrogance disagreeable. He still had not quite recovered from his shushing. “We have engaged him for his expertise, not his manner.”

“Even so, he could at least make an effort to be congenial. He seems to regard me as an annoyance.”

“Seat him next to my aunt at dinner. You will benefit from the comparison.”

“Or they will recognize each other as kindred spirits and unite against me.”

“If that is the case, you always have your mother as an ally.”

“I wish I had yours as well.” She paused. “Though in a sense, I feel as if I do. It almost seems at times that she is guiding me.”

“Toward the statuette?”

“Yes. But also through this time of waiting. On several occasions when I have been in need of encouragement, I have found it in something of hers. After Dr. Severn’s most recent call, for instance, I discovered a journal she kept while expecting Georgiana. You must read it, Darcy. Whatever unhappiness your parents endured, in your mother’s final months, they were hopeful.”

He was glad for it. From what he could recall of the period of Georgiana’s anticipation, his mother had seemed to have found a measure of peace. Both of his parents had seemed more in accord. He had feared it was a memory more wishful than accurate.

“I look forward to reading it,” he said.

“There have been times, too, when I—” A soft thump in Elizabeth’s dressing room drew their attention.

“Wait here.” Darcy took a candle and went to investigate. The chamber was empty, but he found the pounce pot on the floor beside the escritoire, its powder spilled onto the rug.

“Your pounce pot fell,” he said.

“I moved it when I retrieved Mrs. Tilney’s letters.” She stood in the doorway, ignoring his direction to stay put. “I must have left it too close to the edge of the desk. I have been dropping things more and more often of late, but this is the first time I have managed to do so from such a distance.”

He set the small vessel back to rights. The maid could attend to the powder in the morning.

They returned to the bedchamber. Elizabeth arched her back and put a hand to the base of her spine. He felt a twinge of guilt at having been away so long, forcing her to deal with Lady Catherine alone and work hard to cover his absence at a time when simply moving through each day presented enough challenges for her.

“Is my son a heavy burden?” he asked.

She smiled softly. “Our child is heavy, but no burden.”

He helped her into bed and she lay on her side while he rubbed her back. “Is there anything more I can do to improve your comfort?”

“Inform your daughter that she can commence her dancing lessons after she is born.”

“I shall, but I make no guarantee that the child will listen. What else?”

“Tell me I am not grown exceedingly fat. My mother says I am big as a house.”

“You have far to go before you reach the size of Pemberley.” He helped her roll onto her back so that he could meet her gaze. “And to me, you have never looked more handsome.” He kissed her. “Anything more?”

“Solve this Northanger Abbey puzzle so that we can send your aunt back to Rosings — and never have to deal with the righteous Mr. Melbourne or that officious Mr. Chase again.”