Chapter 27
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
T he journal fell from Elizabeth’s slackened grip into her lap, landing against her folded knees with a soft thump. She stared blindly at the page where Anne’s last words were scrawled in trembling lettering, unable to fully comprehend what she had just read. Somewhere along the hall, a bell was chiming in rhythm with her thudding heartbeat.
Anne murdered.
Her own mother the culprit.
The tonic .
Dazed by shock, Elizabeth turned to behold the tea tray that had come in with her breakfast, placed innocuously on the low table before the hearth. She jumped up as if it had scalded her from across the room, inelegantly scrambling farther away from it and onto the bed.
Dear God, I drank nearly half the pot , was her initial dismayed thought. Her hands flew immediately to her abdomen, willing her child to move and assuage her worst fears. As active as the baby was in the middle of the night, it did not oblige her now, and her alarm swelled into panic.
Ding .
Suddenly, the baby jumped and began to wriggle as if prodded awake by the errant chiming of the unseen bell. One of Elizabeth’s hands moved from her midsection to cup her mouth as a relieved sob tumbled from it. All is well, all is well…
It was several minutes before she could quell her tears and steady her nerves enough to think rationally. Calm yourself, Lizzy. There is no reason to think Lady Catherine meddled with the tea. She has been in her rooms since Tuesday and has had nothing to do with the refreshments since then.
Had not Lady Catherine been exceptionally persistent about Elizabeth drinking her dreadful tonic? It had not seemed strange until after reading Anne’s accounting; her ladyship was always pestering someone to do something that she swore would be to their benefit, even when it was more often to their detriment. Elizabeth had never thought that Lady Catherine would attempt to intentionally harm her, however.
With shaking hands, she searched through Anne’s diary, looking for the portion where she described the tonic— yes, here it is —and the question was resolved once and for all. The colour, the acrid smell…and Lady Catherine herself had once said that her daughter had taken it prior to her death. Horrible as the recounting was, it at least further reassured Elizabeth that her own tea had not been altered.
Perhaps it was some sort of mistake? Mrs Jenkinson might have been right all along in that her mistress was unaware of the tonic’s toxicity and had given it to Anne with the aim of improving her health. Who would wish to murder their own child? Or—Elizabeth’s hand curled protectively over her abdomen—someone else’s?
Elizabeth again referred to the diary, leafing through the pages with one fumbling hand while the other remained pressed to her stomach.
…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.
There was no mistake. It was decidedly the same substance, and there was no mystery about what it would do to anyone who drank it. Anne was quite clear on that point— Lady Catherine had known what she was doing .
Sinking back into her pillows, Elizabeth allowed the diary to lie splayed open along its spine as she stared across the room at the tea tray. It sat there so innocently, a commonplace vision of hospitality, hiding its sinister secrets in plain sight. Or at least, it might have had Lady Catherine been at hand to serve her. She shuddered.
What should she do next? Anne herself had not been able to affect her own rescue; by the time she had realised what was happening, she had been too weak and helpless to reach out for aid. And Mrs Jenkinson, her single ally, had been banished from Rosings and threatened with dreadful consequences to keep any illicit knowledge to herself—not that there was any proof that she could offer.
Tell.
Anne’s single utterance rang in Elizabeth’s ears, and she knew instantly what needed to be done. “I must find Darcy.”
Elizabeth scrambled off the bed. With the diary tucked securely against her chest, she raced for the door and flung herself out into the hall. She was only a few steps down the corridor, on her way to the stairs, when she was arrested in place by a voice that sent a shiver up her spine.
“Miss Bennet, there you are. Do come in for a spot of tea.”
Unable to endure the stuffiness of her rooms any longer, or the ennui that beset her while separated from the rest of the household, Lady Catherine had ordered the double doors to the hall propped open. She had watched numerous individuals come and go from her armchair, foot elevated on a matching stool, though none of them had stayed long to entertain her, and she was ready to expire from the tedium. Darcy, who could usually be counted upon to do his familial duty—even though he never came to the point with Anne—had offered her some vague excuse about Fitzwilliam waiting for him in the study before scampering off. Go on, then. Tear the house apart for Anne’s will—you will never find it .
Aside from her ungrateful nephew, she had been forced to contend with the scuttling of servants. Not even Collins, that noghead, could be bothered to call. She did not especially favour his company, but he would at least be an improvement over maids and footmen who had nothing to say aside from ‘yes, your ladyship’. Lady Catherine had dismissed the lot of them ages ago because she could no longer stand their nervous fidgeting.
She sat at greater attention when the door next to hers opened with greater than usual force, and that strumpet her nephew had married came dashing out. Her dress was rumpled, and her hair was a fright, yet she seemed eager to make her way downstairs in that state by the way she all but ran down the carpeted corridor.
This was too good an opportunity to allow to pass.
“Miss Bennet, there you are. Do come in for a spot of tea.”
The girl stopped dead in the centre of the hall, apparently petrified in place. It took her a good deal longer to turn round than it ought to, and once she had, Lady Catherine could see that her face had gone a milky white. Was the girl in such a rush because she was ill?
Perfect. “Come on, girl, do not stand there staring at me—come in, come in.”
Miss Bennet’s throat worked as she visibly swallowed. “Actually, I was just on my way to find my husband. I have an errand that will permit no delay.”
“Nonsense, whatever it is can wait until after you have taken some refreshment.”
The girl took a few mincing steps backwards, clutching a nondescript book tightly to her chest. Her knuckles were turning white from strain. “I really must speak to Mr Darcy?—”
“Come in and sit down ,” Lady Catherine barked in her most commanding tone. “I have been exceedingly dull, and I insist that you come in and entertain me. Ring the bell as you enter.”
Miss Bennet at last drew closer, though she acted as if she were approaching the gallows. She did indeed tug on the bellpull as she moved past it, wincing as it jingled out of sight. She took a seat upon the chaise, perched on the very edge of the cushion as if poised to flee at a moment’s notice. The book she was holding remained tightly within her clutches.
“What is that you are reading?”
Miss Bennet swiftly removed the pale leather tome from her lap and stuffed it beneath her leg. “Just an old novel.”
“I suppose it is full of ridiculous murder plots and villainous witches and the like? I have never cared for such nonsense.”
Miss Bennet’s eyes widened. “I suppose it is.”
A maid entered just then, bringing the stuttering conversation to a halt. Tea was ordered, and Miss Bennet attempted to demure, but Lady Catherine remained firm in her purpose; she might not have another opportunity to feed the chit her special tonic if she did not do so now. Sir Lewis and Anne had been easy enough, for where had they to go but Rosings Park? Darcy meant to leave on Saturday and take his wife with him, so time was short to accomplish her ends.
With that in mind, Lady Catherine flicked her fingers at the wooden chest sitting upon her dressing table. “Bring that to me.”
Miss Bennet appeared to hesitate but then rose to do as bidden. Oddly, she took the book with her, resulting in her balancing it and the chest when she came back. She set the box on the tea table and resettled herself on the chaise.
“Open it.”
She did so and unaccountably flinched, staring in what Lady Catherine believed to be horror. What has she to be so anxious about? She cannot know what it will do to her.
“My special tonic. You do not appear at all well today, so I must insist that you take some. Carrying a child is a taxing endeavour, and you must keep your strength up.”
The girl seemed, for once, at a loss for words. She merely stared at the rows of yellow tonic in their glass phials as if she could hardly comprehend them.
It ought to be impossible, but…does she suspect?
“My mother was quite the horticulturalist,” Lady Catherine commented, observing Miss Bennet closely. The girl’s foot bounced beneath her skirts as if she could not will it into stillness. “As was my sister. I am sure you have seen her rose garden at Pemberley.”
Miss Bennet nodded.
“I, too, enjoy an English garden, though of course I do not condescend to till the land myself. I leave that to rougher hands than mine, such as your cousin’s. You must have noted how well he keeps me supplied with flowers.
“My mother not only passed down an appreciation of gardening but also her vast knowledge of herbs and tinctures. She did not dabble in the stillroom, of course, but she was fascinated by the cultivation of plants for the purpose of remedies, ointments, and the like. I have frequently studied her notes and adapted her methods myself. You see how Collins’s garden thrives under my direction, to say nothing of the plants here.
“This tonic,” Lady Catherine waved her jewelled hand at the open chest of phials, “is distilled from daffodils grown right here at Rosings Park. Dr Nichols has begun to use it for his other patients, and it has done wonders for them.”
Miss Bennet, whose gaze had travelled to the case of tonic, snapped her attention back to Lady Catherine. She wavered where she sat, as if on the verge of fainting, and her chest was beginning to rise and fall with alarming rapidity.
“It did not help my poor Anne, unfortunately,” lamented Lady Catherine, an irrepressible grin stretching across her face, “but then I suppose it cannot mend a disappointed heart. She took a turn for the worse after Darcy married.”
Whatever colour remained in Miss Bennet’s countenance instantly fled, leaving her a ghostly, chalky white. She was clutching at the cushion beneath her as if for dear life. “Lady Catherine, I…I-I must return to my rooms. I fear I am about to be ill.”
She knows.
“My tonic will put you to rights. Stay for a cup of tea before you go.”
Clang, clang, clang!
Lady Catherine was distracted by the loud resonance of bells. They rang at a furious clip, creating such a racket that conversation became all but impossible. The noise was so deafening that she was forced to press her hands over her ears.
Tearing her gaze away from her intended prey, Lady Catherine glared into the hall, where a maid was swiftly approaching with the tea service. She bent to set it down on the table as Lady Catherine demanded, “What is making that infernal noise?”
Clang, clang, clang !
The maid leant in closer, the tray still suspended between her hands. Her face was scrunched in concentration as she shouted, “I beg your pardon, my lady?”
“What is making that noise?”
“Eh?”
“The bells, you stupid girl! Where is that ringing coming from?”
The clanging was suddenly overshadowed by a loud crash issuing from a much closer proximity. The maid had lost her grip on the tea tray, and it had dropped to the table, crushing the box of tonic beneath its weight even as the china shattered into various pieces. A yellow trickle bled from the mangled chest, dripping onto the carpet below.
“Look what you have done!” Lady Catherine screeched at the maid, who shrank back several paces in the face of her mistress’s rage. If she had her cane to hand, she would have given the worthless chit something to cower about.
“My goodness, how unfortunate!” Miss Bennet cried, her voice shrill and frantic. It was barely audible over that blasted clanging. “Do let us call for some help, hm?”
Miss Bennet was on her feet the next instant and bustling the clumsy maid away the one after. She paused only long enough to retrieve her book, and they escaped over the threshold before Lady Catherine could issue so much as a single order to the contrary.
Clang, clang, CLANG !
Not that they would have heard me over this ghastly noise!
She might have gone after them, but she had already made the attempt to leave her chambers earlier in the day, and her ankle had collapsed under her weight. Even if she were willing to endure the pain, she could not possibly overtake them when she was hobbled. All that was left to her was glowering at their retreating forms as they abandoned her to the horrid knelling of the inexplicable bells.
The moment Miss Bennet’s skirt vanished from sight, so too did the bells cease their assault upon her ears. Lady Catherine tentatively lowered her hands but heard not so much as a jingle. She was left alone in the ringing silence.