“No, simply numbness.”
“How does the limb feel now?”
“It improves. Some sensation returns.”
The midwife nodded. “You have grown considerably since the harvest feast. Does the child move a great deal?”
“Oh, yes.”
She felt Elizabeth’s belly. A sharp kick met her palm, evoking a smile from Mrs. Godwin. “Apparently so.”
After a few minutes’ further examination and gentle queries, Mrs. Godwin asked Elizabeth to test her leg. The numbness had ceased, and she found she could stand on it steadily once more. Georgiana returned and looked as relieved by the sight of Elizabeth standing as Elizabeth herself felt.
“Numbness such as this, even sharp pain in the legs, I have seen with other mothers,” Mrs. Godwin said. “It came and went, and disappeared entirely after their babies were born. And the infants themselves were fine.”
“Should she refrain from standing?” Georgiana asked.
“Most mothers of my acquaintance do not have that luxury.” Mrs. Godwin said. “Though indulging in extra rest before the birth is never unwise. Use your own good judgment, Mrs. Darcy.”
After Mrs. Godwin departed, Georgiana insisted that Elizabeth return to bed for the remainder of the day. Elizabeth resisted, certain that a day so spent would bore her into mental numbness.
“I shall remain here to keep you company,” Georgiana said.
“Today is your birthday. You can hardly wish to spend it in my bedchamber.”
“Better the bedchamber with you than the drawing room with my aunt.”
They struck a compromise: Elizabeth would submit to breakfast in bed and Georgiana’s fussing over her until it was time to dress for dinner, whereupon if her leg had given her no additional trouble she would pass the evening as usual.
She settled back against the pillows and arranged the blankets while Georgiana momentarily withdrew to the dressing room. Darcy’s sister reappeared carrying the Madonna lily, which she placed on the bedside table to cheer the room. Elizabeth welcomed the sight and scent of it. In a couple of hours she would return it to Mr. Flynn so that he could honor Lady Anne through his customary gesture.
“I also brought your book,” Georgiana said. “Would you like me to read to you? I can begin wherever you left off.”
Elizabeth regarded the book with confusion. She had read nothing but old letters for weeks, and the volume in Georgiana’s hands did not look at all familiar. ”I am not currently reading any book.”
“Oh? When I saw this in your dressing room, I presumed you presently enjoyed it.”
“Which book is it?”
“Geoffrey Chaucer.”
She had never read Chaucer, let alone this particular copy. Though she had become mildly curious about The Canterbury Tales after learning it had inspired George and Anne’s courtship, she had not yet got round to seeking it on the shelves of Pemberley’s library. “Where, exactly, did you find the book?”
“On your dressing table.”
When she had readied for bed last night, no book had been on her dressing table. How this one had found its way into her apartment, she could not fathom.
Georgiana regarded her uncertainly. “Shall I return it to the library?”
“No,” she said, thinking of the idle afternoon ahead. Lady Anne and George had found enough of interest in the Tales that they had engaged in a debate over them. Surely the poem could provide a few hours’ diversion today. “I believe I should like to become more familiar with Mr. Chaucer.”
Georgiana began reading. One by one, Elizabeth was introduced to the pilgrims making their way to Canterbury. The knight was introduced, the squire, the yeoman, the prioress. When Georgiana said the name Madame Eglentyne, her listener bade her slow down. George Darcy’s first letter concerning Anne had referred to Madame Eglentyne, the prioress.
Chaucer painted a vivid, if not entirely flattering, picture of Madame Eglentyne, who seemed to have suffered from a broad forehead and was not, as he put it, undergrown — a trait for which Elizabeth felt increased sympathy with each passing day. But he did compliment the prioress’s manners and morals, her ability to eat without dropping food all over herself, and a trinket on her arm: a gold brooch engraved with “ ‘a crowned A. And after,’ ” Georgiana continued reading, “ ‘Amor vincit omnia.’ ”
“Unfortunately, I do not know Latin,” Elizabeth said. “Will you translate for me?”
“ ‘Love conquers all.’ ”
But I will not torment myself with conjectures and suppositions; facts shall satisfy me.
— Jane Austen, letter to Cassandra
Dorothy’s name was not Dorothy.
Her name was Mrs. Stanford, and she was the widow of Colonel Reginald Stanford. When the colonel made the ultimate sacrifice for king and country, Mrs. Stanford had continued his service to the military. . in a manner of speaking.
By all reports, the merry widow had been prostrate, though not necessarily with grief, in the days following her husband’s demise. Apparently the companionship of the colonel’s fellow officers had assuaged the pain of her loss. Her name had been linked first with that of a lieutenant, then with a major, before she embarked on a longterm campaign with one officer in particular. A man of fortune, he had set her up in the style to which she’d always yearned to become accustomed, and they had carried on a relationship that lasted two years. Content to enjoy his company when he made himself available to her and his money when he did not, Mrs. Stanford lived as independent a life as any kept woman could. She was in Newcastle only when her paramour was; the rest of her time was divided between London and various spa towns.
Four days of investigation had turned up that much intelligence on the lady who had fled the Boar’s Head inn, but Darcy had been unable to locate the woman herself. Recently, her lover had also been killed in the line of duty, and upon his death she had quit Newcastle. Darcy’s sighting had marked the first time since October that anyone in town had caught a glimpse of her. Once outside the inn again, she had disappeared without a trace.
Darcy had never expected to encounter the mysterious Dorothy while in Newcastle. But he had been less astonished upon learning the name of her longtime paramour.
Captain Frederick Tilney.
Darcy now traveled to Northanger Abbey. He needed to apprise Henry Tilney of Dorothy’s identity and determine whether Henry possessed additional information about her. Much as he wished to avoid the trip to Gloucestershire for any number of reasons — the length of the journey, the increased separation from Elizabeth, not to mention the legal trouble that stalked him — this new intelligence required him to speak with Henry in person, and as expediently as possible. They needed to converse candidly about his brother’s mistress, and they needed to do so soon, before Mrs. Stanford’s trail grew colder.
He had dashed off a second brief note to Elizabeth before leaving Newcastle. He would not stop at Pemberley en route, refusing to delay by even a day the accomplishment of his mission. Better to travel straight to Northanger, complete his business, and return home to stay. He hoped that, meanwhile, Elizabeth could maintain her skillful management of Lady Catherine. He trusted his wife’s ability to capably handle his aunt, but with her lying-in looming ever closer, he regretted causing her the additional vexation his absence produced.
Apprehension crept over Darcy as he entered Gloucestershire. Instead of returning with the information he needed to clear his name, he instead arrived with more queries than answers, and without his legal chaperone. He resented the feeling of skulking into the county, of trying to avoid encountering Mr. Chase or the magistrate as if he were — well, as if he were some sort of criminal. Darcy was used to moving freely in the world, as any gentleman ought.
He reached Northanger and was immediately received by Henry Tilney, who greeted him with eager surprise and conducted him to the library.
“You must have learned something?” Tilney said.
“Dorothy’s identity. I saw her in Newcastle less than a se’nnight ago.”
“Newcastle? Frederick’s regiment is stationed there. Did you go to enquire after him?”
“I went on family business, in the course of which I happened to spy the woman who posed as your brother’s housekeeper. She fled, but my enquiries yielded intelligence of interest. Do you recognize the name Mrs. Stanford?”
“I am afraid I do not. Was she acquainted with Frederick?”
“Very well acquainted.”