Carrie Bebris - North by Northanger

“A misunderstanding? So you said at the trial. The court hereby sentences you to seven years’ transportation, same as Mr. Thorpe, and hopes that by the end of it, your understanding will be stronger.”

“Seven years!” Mrs. Stanford appeared about to swoon. But as the judge orated further, she recovered herself, pulling back her shoulders and tilting her head coquettishly.

“Might I approach the bench?” she asked in a soft voice.

The judge, having ended his speech and, he had thought, his dealings with the Thorpes, released an impatient sigh. “What remains to be said, Mrs. Stanford?”

With all the grace she could muster, Isabella strolled to the judge and murmured something only he could hear. One finger stroked the sleeve of his robe.

His honor’s brows rose. “Indeed? In that case, I will change your sentence.”

She batted her eyes and smiled.

“Ten years.”

The few remaining sentences required the longest amount of time to deliver. The judge donned a black cap before handing them down, and spoke long and passionately about crimes too heinous to pardon on earth. The recipients of these fire-and-brimstone sermons would not be going to a penal colony, but to the gallows.

Wickham fidgeted throughout.

When court adjourned, Wickham was the first of their party to stand. He crossed his arms defiantly and looked down at Darcy.

“Am I dismissed?”

Darcy rose and met him eye to eye. Despite Wickham’s bluff manner, Darcy detected disquiet within him. Perhaps in witnessing the fates of his friends, Wickham had finally glimpsed something unpleasant about himself.

“Go,” he said. “I will see you at the quarter sessions.”

Wickham acknowledged him with a nod. He then hobbled off, his injured ankle still troubling him.

“So,” said Henry Tilney as they waited for the remainder of the crowd to file out of the hall, “Mr. Thorpe will be exchanging his famously swift horses for a slow boat to Australia.”

“It would seem that his belief in the immunity of gentlemen from the law did not bear out,” Darcy replied.

“No, but apparently the law — or, at least, the gentleman who administered it — did prove immune to Mrs. Stanford’s charms.”

“Poor Mrs. Stanford.” Darcy met Tilney’s eye and grinned. “There must have been a misunderstanding.”

“Thank you, Mr. Flynn, for coming all the way up here,” Elizabeth said. A fortnight into her lying-in, she had yet to leave her apartment. But she had need of the gardener’s knowledge and did not want to postpone consulting him.

“It is my pleasure, Mrs. Darcy.”

Her daughter slept in a cradle nearby, and he gazed at the baby for a long time. “A pretty one, she is. Just like her namesake.”

She smiled, never tired of hearing compliments about her daughter. “You would certainly know” Just as he would know how to put together the puzzle she could not quite assemble. She gingerly walked to the table where the pieces of Helen Tilney’s quilt were laid out. Jane, her mother, even Lydia had offered to work together to help her restore it. With such a team working upon it, the result would be less than perfect. But the combined handiwork would make their creation more than a mere quilt. It would be an ideal legacy in which to place her daughter.

“Helen Tilney created a quilt whose pattern represented Lady Anne’s garden,” she explained to Mr. Flynn. “The quilt has been damaged, but I am piecing it back together. I have encountered difficulty, however, with several sections that do not seem to fit where they belong. Since you know Lady Anne’s garden better than anybody else, I thought perhaps you could help me.”

“I would be honored, Mrs. Darcy.”

She showed him the sections she had arranged thus far, and the outstanding pieces that no longer fit. “The marigolds simply will not cooperate. Nor will the violets.”

“That is because you have them in the wrong place,” he said. “If Mrs. Tilney made this design, it reflects the original plan of the garden. I later moved the marigolds to a bed where they receive more sunlight. Here,” he said, switching the pieces, “if you think of the garden’s rosette shape as a compass, the marigolds as Mrs. Tilney knew them were at northwest by north.”

The pieces now fell into place — in more ways than one. She not only knew where Lady Anne’s friend had sewn the marigolds onto the quilt.

She knew where Helen Tilney had sown the ivories in the garden.

A sweet perfume greeted Elizabeth and Darcy as they entered the south garden. It was a fine June day, and the Madonna lilies had just bloomed. Though Elizabeth often strolled with the baby in Lady Anne’s garden, at last she and Darcy could introduce their daughter to the flower whose name she bore.

Lily-Anne Darcy took only casual interest in her surroundings as her father held her up to admire the lilies. She had, after all, recently discovered her own hands, and celebrated this extraordinary event by spending a good portion of her waking hours attempting to stuff all of her fingers into her mouth at once. The nursery maid had apologized repeatedly for not yet managing to break her of the habit. Elizabeth and Darcy found the practice adorable.

Elizabeth broke off a single flower and brought it to Lily-Anne for closer inspection. The baby smiled, grabbed its stem tightly in her small fist, and waved it round.

“I believe she approves,” Darcy said. He looked to Elizabeth, but she yet observed their daughter.

“Rather too much. She is trying to eat it.”

He pried the flower from Lily-Anne’s fingers and returned it to Elizabeth. She tickled the baby’s cheek with its petals, eliciting smiles from both daughter and husband.

When Lily tired of the game, Darcy placed her in Elizabeth’s arms. “Unfortunately, I must leave now or I shall arrive late.”

“This is such a perfect day that I refuse to allow your errand to spoil it. So long as you do not return from the quarter sessions with the news that Mr. Wickham has been released into our custody, I shall be satisfied.”

Darcy shuddered at the very notion. “Responsibility for one child is enough.” He met her eyes. “For now” He kissed his wife, bade Lily- Anne behave for her mother, and departed.

Left alone with her daughter, Elizabeth walked round the garden. The marigolds were preparing to bloom, and the first violets of spring had appeared none the worse for having been temporarily displaced to retrieve the nine statuettes Helen Tilney had hidden. Henry Tilney and his wife had come in person to collect the ivories, and all had taken such pleasure in the visit that the couple extended it twice before finally returning to Gloucestershire. It appeared that in burying her treasure at Pemberley, Helen Tilney had also planted seeds of a friendship between the next generations of Tilneys and Darcys that would be cherished as much as the one she had enjoyed with Lady Anne. The Darcys looked forward to calling upon the Tilneys later in the year, and had been assured that, this time, they would experience a perfectly ordinary reception at Northanger Abbey.

She carried the baby to the alcove that had sheltered Lady Anne’s treasure for so many years. Despite the prominence of the summerhouse, Darcy’s mother had been correct about this more understated corner offering a superior view of the lilies. She had also been right about the glare of the sun upon the desk in the morning room; Elizabeth had finally conceded the point and had it moved back to its original position. Apparently, the new Mrs. Darcy still had much to learn, but she no longer found herself overshadowed by the memory of Darcy’s mother. Indeed, she had come to consider Lady Anne an ally.