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 Ifirst began to think of him in a very different manner.”
— Mr. Darcy, Pride and Prejudice
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.”
The shopkeeper drew his brows together. “I am fairly certain. I do not receive many orders for canes with such compartments. I can check my ledger if you wish.”
Darcy wished very much, indeed. The shopkeeper disappeared into his back room and returned a few minutes later with his record book. He paged through it, traveling back through the years—1810, 1809, 1808. . Darcy shifted his walking stick from hand to hand as he waited impatiently for the old man to locate the entry.
“Ah, here it is.” The craftsman at last pointed to a line. “George Darcy, just as I recalled. Ordered the cane on the fourteenth of June, eighteen hundred four.”
His father had still been alive then. “Was it the same gentleman who bought this walking stick?”
“No, a young man. University lad, I assumed, what with the brandy compartment and all.”
“Can you describe him?”
The shopkeeper shook his head. “I cannot recall his features clearly. Mind you, ten years have passed.”
Even without a description, an unpleasant suspicion of the gentleman’s identity formed in Darcy’s mind. Darcy had been at university himself at the time. Any one of his Cambridge acquaintances could have seen and admired his walking stick. A few of them might have thought it clever to own a cane with a hidden brandy compartment.
But only one would be so bold as to use the name George Darcy.
Till she had made herself mistress of its contents, however, she could have neither repose nor comfort; and with the sun’s first rays she was determined to peruse it.
— Northanger Abbey
I am once more with child.
My sentiments upon realizing my state have been jumbled. I never thought to carry a child again, did not believe I would ever feel another life quicken in my womb. The fear of losing this baby, as I have so many others, nearly paralyzes me. Yet it is only through risk that we can reap reward, and it would be a precious gift indeed to love another son or daughter as I adore my darling Fitzwilliam. .
I told George last night. He was quiet as he heard the news. I could see in his dear face that the expectation of another child brought him happiness, but that he hesitated to express it without first ascertaining my feelings. I confessed that I have reread his letter so often I have committed it to memory, and that I desperately want to trust once again the words that brought us together. He held me tightly and we talked long into the night, voiced many things too long left unsaid. He believes this child is meant to be, and in his embrace, I believe it, too.
Even so, I cannot escape the apprehension that my heart will again be shattered. My thoughts stray to my own mother and the treasure she bequeathed to me. I remember her placing the ivory in my hands, and telling me, as I unwrapped the statuette, that the Madonna enfolded mother and child in a mantle of protection. I regret ever having relinquished it to Catherine. My sister does not know what she possesses. She cannot comprehend the true worth of what lies within the small casket. .
I have written to Catherine again. I have given up battling her for ownership of our mother’s treasure and ask only for its loan. .
Catherine has agreed to lend me the ivory! She still claims it as her own, and insists upon its surrender after the birth. Very well. Once this child is born, she may keep the statuette for herself. Our Mother’s legacy, I will retain. .
George journeyed to Kent to bear the treasure safely home — I would entrust its transport to no one else. A peace I have not known for a decade suffused me as I opened the lid and saw the aged statuette enfolded in its old, tattered wrap. To repay my sister’s kindness, I shall return the ivory in a new velvet cover, one better suited to her sensibilities. .
Catherine comes to visit. God forgive me for thinking so ill of my sister, but I worry that she has changed her mind about our mother’s treasure and will try to take it back before I have done with it. I have moved the casket out of the house entirely, to a place she would never think to look should the whim seize her. I doubt anyone else would stumble upon it either, but in the event, I have taken the precaution of putting a lock on the casket. I felt somewhat impious, locking away the Madonna and Child, but I think Madame Eglentyne would approve. .