Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
F itzwilliam tossed a sheaf of papers onto his discard stack, then turned away coughing at the cloud of dust he had stirred up. “It is like searching for a needle in a haystack. Why do we not just let Lady Catherine have the old pile and be done with it?”
Darcy picked up another bundle of age-yellowed documents yet to be eliminated from their search. He did not lift his gaze from the page he was skimming as he replied, “Because that is not how inheritance works. We must do our due diligence and ensure the proper heir is identified.”
“Who else would she have left it to?”
A frenzied scrambling on the other side of the wall adjoining the library distracted Darcy from answering. He looked up from his page—which turned out to be a laundry bill—and frowned at the panelling. Fitzwilliam stopped to do the same. “Do you hear something?”
The scratching and clamouring continued, now accompanied by muffled grumbling. “Which one was it… The Lady of the Lake …? No…”
“Is that Elizabeth?” Curious, Darcy dropped the papers onto the desk and moved to the wall sconce that operated the hidden door. The concealed panel popped free and listed inwards. He grasped the edge and pulled it fully open before stepping out into the library beyond.
There was his wife, her trembling fingers pulling book after book from the shelves to his left, apparently searching for the one that would grant her access to the study. She was far from discovering it; Le Morte d’Arthur was to his right and on a lower shelf.
“Elizabeth?”
She jerked upright and scurried back a few paces, apparently frightened by his sudden appearance. When she turned to face him, Darcy was immediately alarmed by her countenance; her eyes were wide and bulging, her pallor was ghastly, and she seemed to be breathing too hard for her exertions. She froze when she saw him, then cried out and threw herself into his arms. Darcy stumbled back a step as he caught her.
The colonel appeared at Darcy’s shoulder, his typically jovial face contorted with concern. “What is going on?”
“Anne!” Elizabeth said on a gasp. “The tonic! Lady Catherine .”
Darcy had never seen his wife so overwrought. He led her to the nearest armchair and urged her to sit. When she would not release him, clinging to his coat as if for dear life, he sank onto the cushion himself and pulled her into his lap. She acquiesced to this new position willingly, twining her arms about his neck and burying her head under his chin.
Darcy was at a loss as to what to do. He looked to Fitzwilliam, who appeared equally baffled.
It was some minutes before Elizabeth was able to collect herself into any semblance of composure, but she managed it with several steadying breaths and Darcy’s stalwart presence. At length, she calmed, though she remained pale and visibly distressed. “Forgive me, I have suffered something of a fright.”
“There is nothing to forgive. Can you tell me what has you so upset?”
“I have just finished reading Anne’s diary—oh! The diary, where is it?”
Elizabeth moved to stand, but Darcy held fast to her hips. “Anne’s diary? What has that to do with anything? Did you read something that disturbed you?”
“Before I tell you, we must find the diary! It is the only evidence.”
“Evidence?” Darcy’s brow folded in consternation. “Of what?”
“Here it is,” Fitzwilliam announced, standing from where he had bent to retrieve the volume from the floor. “You must have dropped it in your search for the hidden door.”
Elizabeth breathed a heavy sigh of evident relief. “Thank goodness. I do not know how I possibly could have explained without it.”
Fitzwilliam crossed the room to where they were seated and took up a chair opposite them. He placed the diary on the low table between them before settling more comfortably, legs crossed and fingers steepled as if he were anticipating a long story. “Perhaps you ought to do so and relieve us of the anticipation. What has you in such a dither?”
Elizabeth sucked in a deep breath then released it. “I do not know whether you will believe me, but…”
She went on to relate the most fantastical tale Darcy had ever heard, or close to it. Anne’s diary was, by Elizabeth’s description, full of outrageous theories and accusations against Lady Catherine, which, if true, were monstrous. What sort of mother would harm her own child? Even an accidental poisoning was terrible to contemplate, but premeditated murder? No, it could not be so.
Yet Elizabeth seemed convinced that Lady Catherine was guilty. Not only did she hold Anne’s diary as evidence, but also a recent encounter she had only just escaped in the mistress’s chambers. Whatever Lady Catherine had said or done must have unintentionally coincided with what Anne had written.
“…so I ran from there as fast as I could and sought you out here. I hardly know how I managed it. I was so confused and frightened.”
When she concluded her story on a quavering note, they were all silent for some time, digesting this new and outlandish information. Darcy could not speak for either his wife or his cousin, but he was admittedly sceptical of Elizabeth’s findings. Anne had been sickly for many years, and her death, while sudden, had not been entirely unexpected. Further, it was entirely possible that her illness had addled her mind, making her believe in preposterous things; what if her accounting were nothing more than delusion ?
Fitzwilliam was the one to break the silence by the clearing of his throat. “What you have brought us is…extraordinary. How can you be so certain it is true?”
“If it is not true, then not only was Anne out of her mind, but I am as well. You did not see how Lady Catherine looked at me—that horrid smile.” Elizabeth shivered, inducing Darcy to rub at the goose-skin erupting along her arms. “And she all but confessed to having the necessary knowledge to poison someone. Did you know she makes the tonic herself?”
Fitzwilliam nodded. “She has mentioned it is her recipe, yes. Though I believe Nichols is the one to actually brew the concoction for her.”
“She told me she has it distilled from daffodils .” She said this in a tone implying that Lady Catherine had shown her hand, but Darcy was perplexed. Botany had never been amongst his interests beyond the practical aspects of plotting out a harvest, and Fitzwilliam—whose countenance betrayed his own bewilderment—had not even that much expertise. Testily, Elizabeth continued, “Daffodils are exceptionally toxic to anyone who eats them. I am no expert, but I have worked with my mother and sisters in the stillroom, and we were warned to never use daffodils in our tinctures. A small dose is enough to make someone violently ill.”
“What sort of ill?” Darcy asked.
“Nausea, vomiting, stomach cramps…it is awful. One of our pigs escaped into the garden once and ate up the flowerbed. The poor thing did not make it.”
A faint prickle of unease assailed Darcy, for Elizabeth described Anne’s symptoms perfectly. Of course, many different ailments resulted in stomach upset, but if Lady Catherine was truly making her tonic from a toxic plant…
“Perhaps it was an accidental poisoning?” Darcy suggested hopefully. “As we all know, my aunt purports to be an authority on many things, yet she often overestimates her prowess.”
Elizabeth shook her head. “I thought that myself at first, as did Anne and Mrs Jenkinson, but when she stopped taking the tonic, Lady Catherine insisted that she resume. Mrs Jenkinson explained frankly that it was making Anne ill and that she should not take it, but Lady Catherine would not hear her. When Mrs Jenkinson persisted, sure that a mother would never wish to harm her child, she was dismissed and threatened to hold her tongue.”
“What if Anne was out of her wits?” asked Fitzwilliam. Darcy, who had reasoned the same, nodded.
“Anne’s accounting is entirely lucid, I assure you. You must read it for yourself if you do not believe me.”
“It is not that we disbelieve you, dearest,” Darcy soothed, rubbing her back, “it is only that what you have brought to our attention is…”
“Ludicrous.”
Darcy glared at his cousin, who offered a chagrined smile in return. “I was going to say incredible. Anne might have believed her mother meant to harm her, but is it not more plausible that she misunderstood? She was weak and dying when she wrote that diary. Furthermore, Lady Catherine would have no motive to do what you are implying.”
“Aside from wishing to punish Anne for refusing to indulge her most cherished wish?” Elizabeth looked to Darcy with palpable meaning.
Fitzwilliam remained unconvinced, his brow lifted in a sceptical arch. “Lady Catherine has always hoped to tie Rosings to Pemberley, it is true, but I cannot see her descending to such depravity when Anne failed to marry Darcy. It is nonsensical. No one could possibly be that petty.”
“I assure you that this diary”—Elizabeth laid her hand upon its cover, her fine eyes ablaze with conviction—“is absolutely full of examples of your aunt’s wanton viciousness towards Anne. She treated her own daughter worse than a stray dog in the street, sniping and striking her whenever her mood grew foul. I admit that I did not think it possible at first, but further reflection has convinced me that Lady Catherine is capable of many despicable things.”
Elizabeth’s accusations sat heavily in Darcy’s gut. “I saw no sign of injury when we visited. Are you certain?”
“Most of the abuse was inflicted by Lady Catherine’s tongue, but there were occasional beatings. I think the tonic was her primary weapon—first for control, then to dole out retribution.”
Darcy looked to Fitzwilliam, who appeared as unnerved as he felt by Elizabeth’s reasoning. It was well known that Lady Catherine was a captious ogre—they themselves used to flee from her shadow as boys—but this was something far worse than hurt feelings. Could it be possible?
“Do not take my word for it,” declared Elizabeth, lifting Anne’s diary from where it sat innocently on the table. She placed it in Darcy’s hands. “See for yourself.”
Hours later, after Fitzwilliam had retreated to his rooms for the night, Darcy reclined on the library sofa lost in the labyrinth of his thoughts. Elizabeth slumbered fitfully against his thigh while he stroked her hair absently and stared into the fire, contemplating what he had read in Anne’s diary.
It could not be true, and yet…all the pieces fitted. The timing of events all aligned with his understanding of them; there was the missing will, the spontaneously dismissed Mrs Jenkinson, and the suddenness of Anne’s death. And the spite so uniformly visited upon her by Lady Catherine—Darcy had seen some small signs of it in the past yet never realised how horrendous it truly was. Why had she not sought help? Did she believe it was merely the way of things to be mistreated by one’s parent? I ought to have protected her.
Further, much as Darcy strained to find some recollection to refute his suspicions, he could not recall observing any particular instance of grief in Lady Catherine since arriving at Rosings Park. She had donned her mourning clothes, but little else suggested she had recently lost her only daughter. She was as cantankerous and domineering as always but not despondent. The greatest show of feeling she had displayed in his presence was anger—and that had been primarily directed at Elizabeth.
Then there was her forceful insistence that Elizabeth take her dreadful tonic. Lady Catherine was stubborn, but she could generally be managed if one were firm with her, and yet she had not yielded in the slightest after repeated refusals. One would think that, after Anne had died, she might have at least doubted the efficacy of her brew, but she had persisted against all indication that the tonic was unhelpful.
A quick perusal of a botany guide had confirmed Elizabeth’s assertion that daffodils—from the genus Narcissus —were poisonous, which was supposedly common knowledge amongst those who dealt frequently with plants. Elizabeth had known it, her sisters likely did as well, and Lady Catherine herself was a professed herbalist; surely, she would have been aware of their toxicity?
On the one hand, the totality of information proved that his aunt had, at the very least, behaved irresponsibly in regard to Anne’s health. It was not entirely out of character for Lady Catherine to become caught up in her own greatness or to dismiss the opinions of others when they contradicted her own. It was just like her to be heedless of the harm she caused others.
On the other, a good deal of it suggested something more sinister afoot. She must have known that daffodils were not a healthful component, and yet she had distilled a ‘remedy’ from them. Then there was her apparently great anger that Darcy had married Elizabeth, which, by Anne’s report, had been terrible to behold. Having failed to secure the match her mother wanted, had Anne outlived her usefulness?
Darcy’s mind revolved round and round, the known facts tumbling about in his head like leaves in the wind, but he still could come to no firm conclusions. Was his aunt guilty of the worst crimes imaginable? Or was she merely ignorant and stubborn? Was she resentful enough of Elizabeth to do her harm? Or was the encounter above stairs merely a grave misunderstanding on his wife’s part?
He was distracted from his whirling thoughts by Elizabeth shifting in his lap. Darcy might not have all the answers to this dilemma, but one thing he knew for certain: he would protect his wife and their child at any cost.