North by Northanger (A Mr. & Mrs. Darcy Mystery) (14 page)

“He will be a welcome sight no matter when he arrives. I must confess, even your aunt was, today.” Elizabeth smiled at some recollection. “Darcy, you should have heard the manner in which she manipulated Mr. Melbourne. It was really quite understated for Lady Catherine—a suggestion of future favor, but no actual commitment
to ever do a thing for him. Do you expect she will indeed use her influence to win a place on the bench for him?”

“If there is one skill at which my aunt excels, it is putting people in their place.”

A knock on the door forced Elizabeth to reluctantly relinquish her seat. Darcy rose and opened the door to one of the inn’s maids.

“There’s a gentleman downstairs, sir, wanting to see you. A Mr. Tilney.”

Mr. Tilney? Darcy, having just started to relax the constant guard he had maintained since his arrest, braced himself once more. He doubted the visit would prove a cordial one. “Show him up.”

Elizabeth’s expression revealed similar concern. “I hope he has not come to express displeasure at your release.”

“Quite the opposite,” said Mr. Tilney as he entered the room and bowed to them both. He carried his greatcoat over one arm and his hat in hand. “I was glad to hear of it, as I went to see Mr. Melbourne with the intention of effecting it myself, if I could.”

“I confess surprise,” Darcy said. “When we parted, you did not appear so inclined.”

Mr. Tilney seemed much more amiable now. His voice was warmer, his manner less reserved. “I am come to apologize for my incivility. I had, as you know, just learned of my brother’s death, and I had not yet recovered from the shock of that news when the magistrate arrived with you—a stranger accused of stealing my mother’s diamonds. The more you revealed, the harder it became to divide sentiment from reason and think clearly.”

“Anyone receiving so much disconcerting intelligence in rapid succession would find himself similarly affected,” Darcy said.

“You are more generous with me than I was with you. I am a clergyman; I make my trade in helping others cope with unpleasant news. I should be able to handle it better myself.”

At Elizabeth’s invitation, Mr. Tilney laid aside his coat and hat, and took a seat. He gratefully accepted her offer of tea, revealing that he
had ridden directly from Northanger to Mr. Melbourne’s house to the Golden Crown without stopping for refreshment.

“We appreciate your trouble,” said Darcy, “and your intention to intercede with Mr. Melbourne on my behalf.”

“After I had time to consider your account more objectively, its full import struck me. I realized how unlikely it was that you invented so many of the particulars. Too, though I did not recognize your name upon first introduction, when you revealed our mothers had been friends I realized it had sounded familiar. Your mother was Lady Anne Darcy, was she not?”

“She was.”

“I remember her. She visited Northanger once—I believe I was about twelve. I thought her very pretty.” He smiled. “And her company made my mother cheerful—she valued their friendship. She was an estimable lady, your mother, and I cannot but expect that a son of hers resembles her in that regard. At a minimum, I presume you have better employment for your time than traveling all the way to Gloucestershire to steal a diamond necklace from our family.”

Mr. Tilney paused. “There was also something else that countered my prejudice.” He rose, went to his greatcoat, and withdrew from its folds a familiar object. “I believe this is yours.”

“My walking stick?” Darcy had not expected ever to lay eyes on it again. “Where did you find it?”

“My butler came across it after you departed.”

Darcy took the cane in his hands and examined it. The silver band was fixed—it hid no secret compartment—and the wood’s signature flaw had never appeared so agreeable to his eye as it did now. “So you believe our account of events?”

“I do. Though it means something far more alarming than theft transpired at Northanger Abbey. In the fortnight since my brother died, someone sent his servants away, made free use of his home, enacted an elaborate masquerade for your benefit, and then erased all traces of their presence.”

“Have you any idea who might have perpetrated this scheme?”

“None. I hoped perhaps the two of you could assist me. May I impose upon you to repeat your tale, from the beginning? You said Frederick—or someone claiming to be Frederick—first contacted you in Bath?”

“Yes,” said Darcy. “We received a letter—”

Elizabeth rose. “We still have it.” She retrieved the note and handed it to Mr. Tilney.

“It is dated before Frederick died.” He studied the lines closely. “And this appears to be his hand. If not, it is a convincing forgery.” He set the letter aside. “What occurred next?”

They described their reception at Northanger, their encounters with the false captain and housekeeper, and their premature departure. When they finished, Mr. Tilney asked whether they had been able to discern any of the captain’s features beneath all the bandages.

“He had blue eyes,” Elizabeth recalled. “At least, the one we could see was blue.”

“Frederick’s eyes were brown,” Mr. Tilney said. “Not that there is otherwise any doubt that the man you met was an imposter. Can you remember anything he said that might provide some clue to his true identity?”

Both Darcy and Elizabeth shook their heads. “Nothing obvious comes to mind,” Elizabeth said. “The whole interview was exceedingly odd, though the knowledge that our host was not in fact Captain Tilney now explains much.”

“Obviously, I have an interest in finding this man,” Mr. Tilney said. “And so do you, for Mr. Melbourne told me the larceny charges will not be dropped even though I have withdrawn my interest in the matter.”

“We are to stand trial for a crime with no accuser?” Darcy asked.

“He claims the letter provides sufficient accusation.”

“But the writer is nameless and suffered no damages.” While Darcy himself placed high value on justice, he believed it must be tempered by reason. He could not comprehend the magistrate’s zeal.

“I can only guess that this whole scenario has provided Mr. Melbourne an opportunity to demonstrate his passion for the law. I am
sure, however, that if the man who posed as Frederick can be identified, what tatters of a case now exist will fall apart completely, and you shall be spared the inconvenience and insult of a trial. Can I persuade you to return to Northanger Abbey with me? Perhaps working in concert we can find our answers more quickly, and I would appreciate your aid.”

Assist Mr. Tilney? Without question—for in doing so, he helped himself and Elizabeth. The false Frederick Tilney held the key to their freedom, and Mr. Chase and Mr. Melbourne certainly were not going to do anything toward identifying and arresting him.

But return to Northanger? To this he could not agree. He would not subject Elizabeth to additional time in that house, nor risk her being anywhere near it should the imposter return. He needed to get her to Pemberley, where he could keep her safe while awaiting the arrival of their child. And, much as he hesitated to leave the investigation entirely in Mr. Tilney’s hands, he needed to escort her there himself. Not only did the conditions of their release demand that they remain proximate enough for Lady Catherine to supervise them both, but his own heart demanded that he entrust Elizabeth’s care to no one but himself.

“I freely pledge our cooperation, but I fear we cannot delay our return home.”

Mr. Tilney nodded sympathetically. “Were I you, I should not wish to linger in Gloucestershire, either.”

Darcy actually wished he
could
linger. Though Pemberley offered a safe haven where he could retreat and regroup, he could not conduct his own investigation as effectively from Derbyshire as from here. He would have to rely heavily on Mr. Tilney and Mr. Harper to carry out actions he would otherwise perform himself—and to do so as successfully.

“Let us keep in close communication,” said Darcy. “My wife and I will review our memory of events for anything else that might prove useful. We will also speak with our servants, and I advise you to do the same. Though Northanger’s household staff has been on holiday,
one of them might have perceived something unusual upon resuming his or her duties. Also talk with the groundskeepers and stablehands. I cannot believe that the imposters arrived at Northanger and set up housekeeping without somebody taking notice.”

After a quarter hour’s further discussion of strategy, Mr. Tilney, eager to begin his share of the investigation, departed for home.

“I trust Mr. Tilney,” Elizabeth declared when he had gone. “He seems an intelligent man. But we leave great responsibility with someone we do not know well, and that is unlike you.”

Yes, it was. And it bothered him more than he could reveal to her. “After I confer with Mr. Harper, I will send him here to work with Mr. Tilney. In the meantime, we must get you to Pemberley.”

“I will not enter my confinement for several more months. We can stay here awhile until we find the imposter and clear our names.”

He studied her face—the anxiety lines that creased her forehead; the troubled expression of her eyes and the dark smudges under them. She looked as if she had not slept since Mr. Chase arrested him. “No, we cannot. You need to be home, where you can take proper care of yourself and our child. Not at some inn, or at Northanger Abbey.”

“But what of the investigation?”

“We are going home. Trust me, Elizabeth. Once we reach Pemberley, all will be well.”

Fourteen

“And is
such
a girl to be my nephew’s sister? Is
her
husband, is the son of his late father’s steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!—of what are you thinking?”

—Lady Catherine de Bourgh
, Pride and Prejudice

D
erbyshire in any season was magnificent country, a landscape of wind-carved tors, rocky cloughs, deep wooded glens, and winding streams. Just shy of a year into the marriage that had made the Peak District her permanent residence, Elizabeth still surveyed it with the awe of a visitor each time she traveled its terrain. Nothing in her native Hertfordshire could compare to the imposing crags and lonely moors of the Dark Peak, nor the limestone plateaus and narrow dales of the White.

Today, however, as the Darcys completed the last leg of their journey, Derbyshire’s distinctive grids of drystone walls partitioning rolling hills welcomed her with their familiarity. Though a great part of her felt they ought to have stayed behind in Gloucestershire until the Northanger matter was resolved, she had to concede solace in their homecoming. As their carriage wound its way through the wooded parkland of Pemberley, Elizabeth found herself watching for a glimpse of the noble house with as much anticipation as she had upon her
first visit to the estate. Pemberley stood as a fortress, a bastion of stability. Surely the trouble that they had just endured could not reach them here.

Indeed, when a bend in the road at last revealed dignified walls framed by trees still stubbornly clinging to golden leaves, the nightmare just past took on the sense of having been only that: an unpleasant dream from which they had finally awakened. The anxiety of their recent ordeal receded, and Elizabeth felt herself able to breathe freely for the first time in over a se’nnight.

She noted a similar look of calm on Darcy’s countenance. Pemberley was his foundation, a source not only of strength but also, to a considerable extent, of his very identity. Here he would figure out how to set their world back to rights.

“What will you do first, now that we are home?” she asked.

“What I always do upon arrival at Pemberley after a long absence—hear Mr. Clarke’s report. And yourself?”

“What I do upon arrival anywhere these days. Visit the convenience.”

The barest hint of a smile—the first she had seen on him since his arrest—touched the corners of his mouth.

“I suppose if you intend to closet yourself with the steward, that leaves me the entire pleasure of ensuring that Lady Catherine is comfortably settled,” she said.

“My aunt is rarely comfortable anywhere but at Rosings. She will not hesitate, however, to inform you of how she might be made more so.”

Elizabeth dreaded the weeks, perhaps months, of Lady Catherine’s visit that lay ahead. She doubted even Pemberley would prove large enough to make her ladyship’s indefinite stay tolerable. At least Darcy’s aunt had come alone—her daughter would return to Kent with Mrs. Jenkinson—and in her own vehicle. Sharing a carriage all the way to Derbyshire might have driven one of them past the bounds of the tacit truce they had established in Bath.

“I eagerly await her counsel,” Elizabeth replied. “Having witnessed
her attention to the most minute details of Charlotte Collins’s housekeeping at Hunsford parsonage, I anticipate she will have twice as much wisdom to impart regarding my management of Pemberley. Though how she will advise me to remove the pollution wrought upon the estate by my inferior relations, I cannot guess.” Of the many objections Lady Catherine had voiced to a marriage between her nephew and Elizabeth, one of the most strenuous had been the connection it created between Darcy and George Wickham.

The carriages came to a halt, and soon Elizabeth and Darcy entered the house with her ladyship. Lady Catherine surveyed the hall with the air of one determined to find fault.

“I see you have painted in here since I last visited Pemberley,” she declared. “By your initiative, Mrs. Darcy?”

“No, mine,” Darcy said.

“I approve the color. Though were the blue a shade lighter, it would lend the room an even more regal air.”

“Perhaps your ladyship would like to wait in the yellow drawing room while your belongings are brought to your chamber,” Elizabeth suggested. “We might find Georgiana there—no doubt she will take delight in the discovery that you accompany us.”

“Georgiana is a charming girl. I look forward to her performances on the pianoforte in the evenings. You would do well, Mrs. Darcy, to practice the instrument more assiduously yourself. You will never match my niece’s talent, of course, but your execution would benefit from more serious application. I still cannot comprehend why your parents did not insist on better musical training for you and your sisters. It is one of the most basic accomplishments of a gently bred young lady. It instills discipline. Your youngest sister would not have turned out so wild had she engaged in serious musical study.”