Chapter 26
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
S ubsequent entries—more than a month’s worth of them—detailed Lady Catherine’s vindictive campaign to belittle her daughter at every opportunity. The words that wretched, awful woman had used to denigrate Anne! Elizabeth would never have spoken so against the dastardly Mr Wickham, much less her own child. The paper was splotched with the evidence of Anne’s understandable distress as she described each verbal assault.
Swiping a tear from her own cheek, Elizabeth turned another page.
November 30, 1812
It has been a full se’nnight since I last put pen to paper, and I have greatly missed doing so. Such is the risk I run by keeping my diary hidden in my tower, as my frailties are liable to render me bedridden at any time. Still, ’tis far better than leaving my private thoughts where Mother can read them for herself; I learnt that lesson in the year eleven and shall not make the mistake of allowing her access again. I still wince at the memory of the beating I endured when she discovered my true feelings for my cousin…I am amazed she did not hobble me. Just in case, I burnt the volume from 1807 lest she uncover the secrets therein. No doubt her punishment would be even more severe were she to learn that I could have accepted Darcy then and thus prevented his marriage.
I have been horribly ill since my last entry in this volume. It began as a simple cold; we attempted to quell the symptoms with Mother’s special tonic—horrid, smelly stuff that clings to my nose hairs and is as yellow as the bile I cast up—but then my stomach became unsettled, and I could not keep it down for anything. Mrs Jenkinson was beside herself when we used up the last of it, but thankfully I began to improve shortly thereafter. Dr Nichols is presently brewing up a new batch, but until then I shall have to do without my daily dose.
Elizabeth, recalling exactly the horrid smell Anne described, found it incredible that she was ever able to keep it down at all. Her own stomach rebelled at only the slightest whiff.
Her thoughts on Lady Catherine were growing increasingly dark at every report of her hatefulness. Georgiana was right to fear her, if this was how she treated Anne, and Elizabeth vowed never to subject her child to her ladyship’s company. When Darcy saw the contents of this journal, he would surely agree; never would he have allowed his aunt to carry on in such a fashion had he been aware of it at the time.
Perhaps a schism is unavoidable, after all.
December 8, 1812
I must say that, aside from some persistent weakness, I have not felt this well in years. As a child I was always beset by some malady or another, but it was not until sometime after Father died that Mother began to worry that I would follow him to an early grave. He reportedly displayed all the same symptoms that I presently do—nausea, stomach pains, every sort of vile thing you can think of—and died within the year. Dr Nichols says that these things are often found in families, thus explaining how and why I am the last remaining de Bourgh, but swears that medical science has advanced enough to keep me alive. He was too late to save Father, but the hope is that he will succeed with me.
That said, I am beginning to experience some doubts regarding his prowess. I have not taken Mother’s tonic—which Dr Nichols lauds to the skies as a miraculous cure—since I was in the throes of my last bout of illness, and I feel perfectly well. Better, even, than I did before the sickness beset me in November. Is this mere coincidence? Or have I been unintentionally weakened by the tonic? I have asked Mrs Jenkinson her opinion, and she is as lacking in answers as I. We have determined to abstain from the tonic a little longer and see what results.
Most of the entries following this one were entirely uneventful, and Elizabeth was glad of it, for Anne’s sake. The dear lady had partaken of more frequent excursions—driving out in her phaeton, calling upon Charlotte, visiting her tower, et cetera—while managing to avoid Lady Catherine save for at mealtimes.
Unfortunately, it seemed that Anne was not meant to enjoy good health and tranquillity for any great length of time. Near the end of December, she recorded an alarming report.
December 21, 1812
I have not witnessed Mother so enraged since learning of Darcy’s marriage. Then, she boiled over with it, but now she is all cold menace. I am ashamed to admit that I quailed under her glare when she confronted me, certain I was about to be met with violence. I was not, but the clenching of her fists upon her cane made the danger seem imminent. I think the presence of Dr Nichols was the only thing that prevented it.
My sin: I confessed that I have been abstaining from my tonic.
I had genuinely thought she would be pleased to learn that I was strong enough to forgo it, but I was badly mistaken. Dr Nichols came to the house to examine me, as he does the third Monday of every month, and his report was favourable. So favourable that he asked whether I had been doing aught differently to effect such a positive change in my health. I informed him that the only change was the cessation of my tonic, at which point Mother’s mood shifted for the worse .
Mrs Jenkinson attempted to defend me from Mother’s chastisement by explaining that I had been better off without the tonic, but she would hear nothing of it. She lambasted my dear companion, accusing her of putting my life in danger by withholding my medicine. It was only after much pleading that I convinced Mother not to turn my dear Jenkinson out of the house.
When Mrs Jenkinson shared her observation that the tonic made me violently sick, Dr Nichols countered that it was meant to; according to him, purgatives are known to have healthful benefits for those beset by troublesome humours. By his reasoning, one needs to expel a sickness from the body lest it spread and overwhelm a person. Someone with a chronic condition such as my own requires this treatment frequently to keep the worst symptoms at bay. Dr Nichols credits Mother, a self-proclaimed herbalist, for the creation of the tonic in question. He has even been prescribing it to his other patients, thus accounting for his shortage back in November.
(By the bye, I have never been so horrified by my mother’s knack for collecting weak-willed pawns to do her bidding. Mr Collins might be a dolt, but he has caused no real harm as far as I know—though that, perhaps, is due to the intervention of his sensible wife. Dr Nichols might well be sickening half the village to please his patroness.)
I begin to harbour grave doubts regarding my treatment. Both Mother and Dr Nichols appear absolutely convinced that my wellbeing depends upon my routine consumption of the tonic, despite the evidence that suggests the contrary to be true. I know they mean well, but is not the road to Hell paved with good intentions?
December 25, 1812, Christmas Day
I wish I could say that today was a merry occasion, but that would be a lie. Far from experiencing the joy of the season, I begin to grow afraid that my previous assumptions regarding Mother’s good intentions are false. I begin to believe she means me harm.
Even as I write this, I doubt myself. What sort of mother would seek to hurt their own child? Accidents occur, certainly, but I cannot fathom the sort of monster who would injure their progeny by design. It seems impossible—and it ought to be! However…
I began taking the tonic again and fell immediately ill. So ill that I collapsed and had to be carried to my room, where I remained in the utmost agony for hours. When it came time to take another dose, I begged Mrs Jenkinson not to give it to me, but Mother stood over her and made sure her will was done. I was up for the rest of the night, writhing in pain and sure that I was going to die. Mrs Jenkinson stayed with me throughout, and I caught her sobbing over me more than once.
In the morning, Mother again prompted Mrs Jenkinson to feed me the tonic—which I now regard as nothing less than poison—despite every tearful objection. How could anyone witness such misery and still persist in the belief that they were helping?
I was wondering that very thing as Mrs Jenkinson prepared my cup, her hands shaking as she poured it out. I kept my eyes trained on Mother, beseeching her as much with my expression as with my words to cease this torment, but she remained unmoved. Indeed, she stared at me in utter silence, observing me minutely. When Mrs Jenkinson brought the tea to my lips—I was too weak to lift it myself—Mother gave me the queerest smile. I shall never forget it as long as I live, and I shudder to think of it now.
When the tea washed over my tongue, I knew that Mrs Jenkinson, at least, could no longer bear my suffering. It tasted only of chamomile, my favourite, and had neither that awful acrid taste nor yellowish tint to it which would suggest she had included the tonic. There was an unspoken understanding between us to say nothing of its absence.
That was three days ago, and I am only now strong enough to leave my rooms. Mother has never been fond of the sickroom and so left my care to Mrs Jenkinson once she was satisfied that the tonic regimen had been resumed. I played along, pretending to be sicker than I was to convince her.
Mrs Jenkinson, who can never bear to believe ill of anyone, remains convinced that Mother is merely misguided and that her intentions are good. I, however, am growing increasingly certain that she means to kill me. I cannot say why or for how long Mother has harboured this ill intent, but I fear that it is only a matter of time before she achieves her ultimate ends.
Elizabeth turned to the next page so quickly that she nearly tore it, her heart racing and aching for some reasonable explanation that would dispel the awful suspicions growing there.
What she found was the final entry .
January 1, 1813
Although it has been my habit since I was thirteen to begin a fresh journal at the start of each new year, I suspect that this will be my last entry—in this volume or any other. Mrs Jenkinson, my dear companion and last remaining protector, has been dismissed from her position and banished from Rosings Park. And it is all my fault.
This afternoon while Mrs Jenkinson prepared my tea, Mother became aware that I am again forgoing her wretched tonic. She confronted Mrs Jenkinson, ordering her to add it to my beverage as instructed, and the dear woman was brave enough to refuse, though she trembled visibly. She did her best to convince Mother that the tonic was harmful, but Mother refused to hear her. When it at last came to the point, Mrs Jenkinson would not be induced to knowingly injure me. She was dismissed on the spot and thrown from the house without even affording me a chance to bid her farewell.
I do not blame Mrs Jenkinson for my sorry state, for she did everything she could to protect me. The sweet creature did not understand, until the very end, what sort of danger I was in; or what sort of danger she found herself in—oh, Mother’s threats were horrible! A bolder person than my dear Jenkinson would have crumbled under their weight, and she was as courageous as she knew how to be.
Whosoever should read this diary, I beseech you, please tell Mrs Jenkinson that she was more mother to me than my own. She looked after me, taught me, loved me as only a mother would, and I loved her as if I were her child in truth. The privilege I was born into cannot compare to the affection so freely given by my dear Jenkinson.
I write the next passage in the hopes that someone will eventually discover this diary where I have hidden it in my tower, safe from my mother’s control. She never visits this place, has all but forgotten its existence, and I pray that it remains so. Should it not, every last scrap of evidence of her misdeeds, her despicable sins, will be erased, and I shall never see justice done.
One might wonder why I do not reach out for aid. With Dr Nichols as her conspirator, the Collinses blind to her malfeasance, and the servants fearful of her wrath, Mother has seen to it that there are none close by to render it. As for my family, the de Bourgh line is now defunct—or it will be in short order; I have no illusions that I have much longer to live—and the Fitzwilliams are loyal to Mother. Who would believe me? I hardly believe it myself, though there is little room left for doubt. I could count on Richard or Darcy to ride in on their white steeds and rescue me, but I fear my missive would reach them too late—if even I could send a letter to them without my mother being aware of it.
My final will and testament resides at the offices of a Mr Harold Stephens, local solicitor to Hunsford village. Should the document conveniently go missing, or should Mr Stephens bow to my mother’s demands and disavow any knowledge of it, know that Mrs Jenkinson has been entrusted with a copy as well. Knowing for many years that Mother would be displeased by the contents of my will, for I altered it without her knowledge, I made certain that at least one record of it existed beyond her sphere of influence. I sent it off to London with Mrs Jenkinson during one of her visits to her sister, and she dutifully deposited it at a bank per my direction.
In case this diary falls into the wrong hands, I shall not say which one, but Mrs Jenkinson will know. I have instructed her to send word to my cousin Darcy once she hears of my death, and I have every confidence that he will see my final wishes executed to the letter. You will likely find my former companion on Edward Street, residing with her sister. Even if not, Mrs Younge will surely know how to reach her after the exchange of a few coins.
I can hear searchers calling my name from the woods, so I must close here before they discover the tower. I am not likely to possess the freedom or the strength to return, and so, to whomsoever this may concern, I bid you adieu.
Anne de Bourgh