Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
T he evening passed in a frenzy of emotion and activity.
Mrs Collins gave her foolish husband the respect of grieving his loss. To be sure, after such an ordeal as she had experienced, tears would be shed and wailing heard either way, but if the parishioners who came to her side assumed those to be an homage to her lost love, all the better.
She and Miss Lucas were brought to the great house, and two maids were dispatched to gather all their personal items into trunks. They would leave on the morrow for Hertfordshire and the comfort of Lucas Lodge.
Lady Catherine could not be persuaded to believe the story she was told upon their return to Rosings, but rather chose to accuse Elizabeth of poisoning Darcy against Anne in an attempt to steal him away from her daughter. Even Elizabeth’s obvious injury, Mr Collins’s untimely death, and Anne’s own hands, still stained with the parson’s blood, would not pull from her a concession.
It was decided that, while a footman ran for the magistrate, Anne would be tied securely to a chair in the great parlour, and Lady Catherine would be locked in her chambers. They could not risk the woman trying to release her daughter when no one was looking. Darcy was gratified to see just how willing the butler was to post two more footmen at Lady Catherine’s door to ensure her imprisonment.
Over the course of the evening, Lady Catherine shifted the blame to Mrs Jenkinson, for it was discovered that she had been out of town for three days several weeks before and had forgotten to assign a maid to administer Anne’s draughts. By the time she had returned, Anne was so altered that Mrs Jenkinson could not convince her charge to have them. At first, she had attempted to slip the medications into her tea, but that had been met with such a fierce explosion of fury that she was too afraid to try again. Eventually, Anne’s threats and abuse had caused the older woman to quit admonishing her mistress altogether.
The poor woman blamed herself for the death of Mr Collins and the distress of his household. It was all Elizabeth could do to get her to cease crying while also tending to her dear friend in her hour of need. Indeed, she had very little time at all to focus on her own fury at Lady Catherine, whose abominable pride had been the root cause of all the atrocities of the day.
The next morning, as Darcy and Elizabeth were about to climb into one of Lady Catherine’s fine carriages, Lady Catherine, her face swollen from long-shed tears, stopped them, holding out a folded parchment. “Give this to Fitzwilliam,” she commanded, then sniffed. “None of this would have been necessary if you had just done your duty.” With that, Lady Catherine covered her mouth with her soiled handkerchief and allowed Mrs Jenkinson to lead her back into the great house.
Darcy pocketed the packet and helped Elizabeth into the conveyance, followed by the local magistrate, Anne, and a burly constable. The magistrate had recoiled at the idea of such a gentleman sharing a carriage with a murderer, but Darcy had insisted on being present when his cousin was admitted to the asylum. That was not to say the gentleman had not welcomed the extra muscle; Darcy could fairly see the sweat beading on the magistrate’s temples at the thought of transporting a cold-blooded killer all the way to London with only a constable.
The journey to Bethlem Hospital in Southwark began as a quiet one. The express Darcy had sent Seymour the morning before had been answered with one of his own, insisting that she be remitted to Bedlam as soon as humanly possible. Darcy was only too willing to comply.
The worst was over. Elizabeth was at his side. And soon, his murderous cousin would be put away for good, behind the walls and bars of an institution where she could not hurt anyone else.
“Why did you do it, Miss de Bourgh? Why Mrs Collins?” Elizabeth asked quietly, surprising the other occupants of the coach.
“Why did I do it? You could not see it, Miss Bennet?” Anne answered primly, almost kitten-like in her manner. “She. Was. Weak . She needed to be…dispatched.”
Darcy’s stomach lurched. Could such lunacy really have existed in this woman all her life? Right under his nose?
“Is that why you wanted me dead, then?” Darcy asked. “What about me was so weak?”
“You have been a thorn in my side for half my life. My mother always droning on about our impending marriage, about how I needed to be the mistress of Pemberley. Family honour and all that.” Then, she leant forwards and raised her eyebrows, “Family secrets …Gah! One little thing all those years ago, and I am expected to be shackled to you for life! No, thank you.”
She would rather have killed him than be married to him? Darcy did not understand her, but he had not expected to understand her. She was literally insane.
Elizabeth must have seen the consternation on his brow, for she reached across the seat they shared and grasped his hand.
“Aww,” simpered Anne. “Too sweet. What mooncalves you have turned my cousins into, Miss Bennet.”
He felt Elizabeth stiffen. He squeezed her hand, a silent reassurance that he knew there was nothing to it. She had told him of Fitzwilliam’s dancing attendance upon her. And she had made it very clear which cousin held her heart.
“I will not leave your side. Now or ever again,” she had promised.
Darcy was not worried.
“Oh, to see Richard moping about the house, just waiting for the moment he might rush off to meet you in the woods. What did you do there, I wonder? On all those long walks?” Anne enquired with a leering grin.
“That is enough,” Darcy commanded her coldly. He would not sit back and listen as his beloved was maligned.
“Poor Richard,” Anne continued dreamily. “He always was a romantic. So full of hope, poor boy. He did not believe me when I told him you were attached to Darcy. Who would want a poor soldier when they could have Pemberley, after all?”
Darcy winced. That would be hard for Fitzwilliam to hear. After chewing on her words for a moment, a bitter suspicion crept into Darcy’s mind.
“And when did you tell him this?” he asked, hoping against hope that Fitzwilliam’s tendre for Elizabeth had not been of long standing.
“Just before he left. Why, he did not even think of Miss Bennet before you were out of the picture, Darcy. So honourable, that Fitzwilliam. As if he would ever set his cap at your favourite. But, you had him convinced that you would never have her.” She shot Elizabeth a gloating look. “And look at you now.”
Darcy lifted Elizabeth’s hand to his lips at Anne’s incriminating taunt, hoping his cousin’s words did not cut her the way the memory of his having said them cut him. She gave him a tired smile of absolution in return.
The five travellers sat in silence for another stretch of road. Darcy thought about Fitzwilliam and how heartbroken he would be when he told him that he and Elizabeth would marry. Had his cousin not faced enough injustice? Fitzwilliam was such an excellent man; he deserved a fine home, a good income, and the love of a worthy woman. He certainly did not deserve to be thrown over for his wealthy cousin—his best friend, nonetheless! Even now, he was probably growing more and more anxious while awaiting Darcy at Matlock House.
A low laugh sounded from Anne’s throat. She lifted her two bound hands and reached into her bodice, removing a ruby pendant, which hung from the gold chain around her neck. Sliding it from side to side along the chain, Anne eyed Elizabeth and said, “I hope you enjoy Pemberley’s library, Miss Bennet.”
Darcy gazed over at his beloved and noted a sweet blush creeping onto her cheeks. He had not actually proposed yet, preferring to present to her a clean, freshly shaven, well-dressed suitor before doing so. She was so lovely; it had taken everything in him not to ask her to be his wife the moment he had seen her at Rosings Park.
Elizabeth, however, did not look at him. She was transfixed by Anne’s hands moving rhythmically before her face. Darcy looked at the necklace, recognising the pendant from Elizabeth’s drawing. Then, something sparked in his memory. In a flash that surprised everyone in the coach, including himself, Darcy reached forwards and yanked the necklace out of Anne’s hands. He stared down at the pendant in his palms, the broken chain hanging over his fingers and finally slipping to the floor.
“What was the one little thing that led your mother to insist we marry, Anne?” he asked without looking up, afraid he already knew the answer.
“Why, Lady Anne, of course!” Anne answered with a tinkling laugh.
“My mother,” Darcy uttered blankly, now fully recognising the pendant as having been part of a set his mother had worn. He could feel the bile rising in his throat, and his hand tightened into a fist as he waited for his cousin to elucidate her enigmatic statement.
“Oh, yes. Mother was convinced that if we married, I might be able to stop you,” Anne explained, adding in a sing-song voice, “from finding her body.”