Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
A s thunder grumbled overhead and rain lashed at the windows, Darcy felt a considerable sense of foreboding. The more sizeable storm was in his mind as he grappled with what he knew and what he thought he knew—his aunt, a murderess? Anne, her victim? Elizabeth, her next target? He would have bustled his wife into their carriage that moment and retreated to London had it been safe enough for travel, but the weather made the roads muddy and slick, hazardous even for those not in a delicate condition. He could not take the risk to Elizabeth’s—or the baby’s—health, not without knowing where the greater danger truly lay.
His gaze wandered from the wet scene outside to where his wife sat in a chair by the library fireplace, bundled in her favourite green shawl with a book propped open against her knees even as her eyes drooped slowly closed. Poor Elizabeth, beset by dreams all night long, had not slept peaceably, and the dark circles under her eyes were a testament to that.
Freddy lay curled up on the hearth rug at her feet, watchful for any slight movement from her mistress. The dog had popped up repeatedly to examine Elizabeth at any time she so much as yawned and would not lie back down until assured with scratches and soothing words that she was well. Percy had vehemently protested against admitting Freddy to the house, given Lady Catherine’s edicts that dogs belonged in the kennels, but Darcy was glad he had held firm on the matter. Freddy not only provided a good deal of comfort to his dear wife but would serve as an admirable guard if it ever came to…no, he could not think of it without feeling sick.
The door to the hall swung open, and Darcy, equally as vigilant as Freddy, stood immediately to attention. His stance eased somewhat when he recognised the figure of his cousin. “What news?”
The colonel had set out for Hunsford village that morning to gather as much information as he could about the fire that had destroyed the solicitor’s office there. Per Lady Catherine’s information, it had occurred several months prior to his cousin’s death, yet it was not mentioned in her diary. Such an omission was odd for Anne, who would have necessarily been aware of such a catastrophic event; not only did she frequently drive her phaeton through the village, but all the locals would have been gossiping about it. Either it was a gross oversight on Anne’s part or something else was afoot. Fitzwilliam had volunteered to venture out and discover the truth of the matter .
His cousin hastily shut the door behind him and traversed the room to the seating area, where Darcy met him. Elizabeth, instantly cured of her malaise by the colonel’s entrance, sat up straighter in her chair and looked to him with anticipation writ across her features.
Fitzwilliam’s coppery hair was somewhat damp from his trip to the village, but he had obviously changed his clothes, which were pristine. “No one can tell me how the fire began,” he said without preamble, “but it is the assumption that Mr Stephens must have left a candle burning and it tipped over sometime in the night, sending the place up. I imagine a business like that, full of dry old documents, would burn like a tinder box. It is a miracle they were able to contain the blaze before it spread to the next building. More importantly, I have ascertained when it occurred—February the twenty-eighth.”
Darcy frowned. “Did not Anne die on the twenty-sixth?”
Fitzwilliam’s eyes darted between them with meaning. “She did indeed. Thus explaining the omission in her diary. However, our aunt led my father to believe it had occurred well prior to Anne’s death. It is not definitive proof of anything, of course, but the timing is dubious. After all, why should Lady Catherine lie about something like that unless there was a reason to misdirect us?”
Elizabeth was quick to answer. “She could not have your father looking more deeply into the incident and so thought to make it appear unrelated. If the fire occurred prior to Anne’s demise, there would be little reason to suspect there is foul play afoot. ”
“Exactly.” Fitzwilliam tipped his chin to Elizabeth, his aspect grim. “I admit that I have been sceptical about Anne’s reasoning, assuming that her mind must have been addled near the end, but I have to say my doubt is diminishing. There is no one thing that convinces me, but rather the totality of the evidence is suggestive. Anne’s documentation of her illness, Mrs Jenkinson’s sudden dismissal, the timing of the fire at Mr Stephens’s office, Lady Catherine’s shading of the facts…threads that, when woven together, create a disturbing tapestry.”
Nodding along with the colonel’s recitation, Darcy could not help reaching the same conclusion. “Agreed. The question now is how to proceed. We cannot merely confront Lady Catherine with our findings because she will never admit to any sort of wrongdoing. Even were the evidence indisputable—and it is a far cry from that—she would resolutely maintain her innocence until the end.”
“The only missing piece is the will,” said Fitzwilliam. “If we were to actually lay our hands upon it, it would go a long way to proving our conjectures. Even if it does not necessarily prove murder, it at least suggests fraud on her part, and my father could intervene. If nothing else, she will not be allowed to profit from her malfeasance. Of course,” he concluded with a wry grimace, “inheriting this place might be more curse than blessing.”
Elizabeth’s titter at Fitzwilliam’s jest died away quickly. “I should like to see justice done on Anne’s behalf, if possible. She wants…that is, I am sure she would wish the truth to come out.”
Fitzwilliam exchanged a look with Darcy that was at once baffled and incredulous. “You speak as if you have conferred with my late cousin about this.”
The way Elizabeth’s gaze dropped to her lap and she fiddled with her fingers told Darcy that she possibly had—or thought so, at any rate. He recalled then that Elizabeth had mentioned dreaming of Anne previously and wondered whether that was the source.
“You will not believe this,” she said quietly, still staring at her knees, “but Anne has been visiting me. It was she who led me to the diary in the first place, in fact, and the origins of our new knowledge.”
The library was silent save for the crackling fire, lashing rain, and the unobtrusive jingle of a bell somewhere in the house. Neither gentleman seemed to know quite what to say to this revelation, incredible as it was.
Darcy’s first instinct was to disbelieve what his wife was telling them, having never been inclined to a superstitious bent previously. However, their mutual experience of the past summer gave him pause; no matter how he had rationalised the strange teasing lights, the inexplicably locked doors, and marvellous coincidences of that time, a part of him could not explain how all of it had coalesced into his happily ever after with Elizabeth. He had thought it due to Fate, but was that any less preposterous than meddling spirits? Elizabeth finding the tower—the existence of which she had previously been in ignorance—and Anne’s diary hidden therein defied rational explanation every bit as much as their accidental meeting in a gallery at midnight. Perhaps they were being guided by unseen forces.
By the plain expression of dubiety on Fitzwilliam’s face, his cousin had reached the opposite conclusion. “ Well, that is…ahem, forgive me, but what you say is incredible. It is difficult to believe that Anne’s spirit—ghost, or what have you—revealed this mystery to you.”
Elizabeth straightened her spine and squared her jaw. “I assure you it is true. No matter how ‘incredible’ it may sound, I would never have found Anne’s diary without her showing me the way.”
Darcy approached his wife and laid a hand upon her shoulder, drawing her attention. Softly, he assured her, “I believe you.”
She appeared nonplussed, with her mouth gaping open and her lashes fluttering in fitful spasms. “You do?”
“I do,” he replied, all earnestness. “I admit that I have been sceptical in the past, but after last summer I am more inclined to accept that there is much in the world that I do not fully comprehend. What was it that Shakespeare said?”
Her gaze softened as she quoted, “‘There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.’”
“Exactly so.” He stroked her cheek, and she leant into the caress, eyes shining.
“Pardon me,” interjected Fitzwilliam, a dry quality to his tone, “but I require more convincing. I mean no offence.”
He directed the last to Elizabeth, who waved his apology away. “It does not particularly matter whether you believe me, for there are plenty of concrete facts to arouse suspicion regardless of how we discovered them. Anne’s diary is perhaps our strongest piece of evidence, but it requires further corroboration. We need the testimony of Mrs Jenkinson.”
“You are correct, of course.” Fitzwilliam bowed to her in concession. “It ought to be our first matter of business. Whether she seconds Anne’s accusations or refutes them, Mrs Jenkinson is the person we must apply to for answers.”
Darcy picked the diary up from the tea table where it had been innocuously sitting since that morning when they had surreptitiously escaped their chambers. It had not been out of his possession since Elizabeth had brought it to them the previous day. He turned to Anne’s final entry, skimmed it, and tapped the paragraph of interest. “Right here, it says that Mrs Jenkinson most likely went to her sister in Edward Street—Dear Lord.”
Fitzwilliam’s mirroring grimace told Darcy that he understood the problem, but Elizabeth looked between them in puzzlement. “What is the matter?”
“I had all but forgotten that Mrs Jenkinson is related to Mrs Younge,” Darcy explained, though he despised the necessity of speaking that woman’s name. It tasted rancid on his tongue. “Her elder sister, in fact. That was how Lady Catherine came to recommend her to me as Georgiana’s companion two years ago.”
Comprehension arising, Elizabeth’s nose wrinkled. “Goodness. I never would have thought that the pair of them would be sisters.”
“They are entirely different creatures, I assure you. Mrs Jenkinson’s devotion to Anne was genuine, while Mrs Younge’s to Georgiana was…well. It is an unpleasant business but one we must undertake. We sh all leave for London as soon as this ghastly rain lets up.”
Elizabeth gripped his sleeve. “We cannot leave without seeing this to the end. What of Anne and the justice she is owed?”
Clasping the hand she clutched him with, Darcy replied, “If our suspicions are true, we cannot stay here, dearest. I dare not risk your safety, especially if you truly are her next target.”
“But all the tonic was destroyed,” she argued. “Unless she means to harangue me to death, I do not see how she can harm me. Besides, what if Anne needs to communicate again? So far, I am the only person she has reached out to—unless you count what I presume are assaults upon Lady Catherine.”
Elizabeth’s conjecture provided a new perspective on the overturned teacups, falling paintings, obliterated thrones, misplaced footstools, and destruction of her tonic but did not provide Darcy any real sense of ease. “If nothing else, I need to seek out Mrs Jenkinson and see my uncle about our suspicions. We cannot stay, Elizabeth.”
“I will not leave,” she replied, all stubbornness. She withdrew her hand from his and stood, ready to do battle. “You cannot force me unless you intend to throw me over your shoulder and make off with me in the carriage like a common highwayman. Anne requires my aid, and I intend to provide it.”
“Elizabeth—” He cut himself off, full of exasperation, and pinched his nose with his thumb and forefinger. “You are being unreasonable. ”
“No, I am being responsible . I cannot, nor will I, allow a murderess to go free and do nothing about it. My place is here where I can communicate with Anne and fulfil her final wishes.”
Their argument might have persisted for longer if Fitzwilliam had not interrupted. “Let us compromise. Darcy, why do you not stay here with your wife while I go to London? Both of us are not required on the errand, and frankly it will go much faster if I am the one to conduct it. If I leave now, I can be there and back by tomorrow. Further, with the rain and Elizabeth in her condition, it is not at all safe for her to travel. She is better served staying here under your guard, even if she must share a roof with Lady Catherine.”
Darcy threw up his hands, frustrated. “Very well! Since you are both against me, it will be as you say, but I need you to promise me”—he said this to Elizabeth, fixing her with his most weighty stare—“that you will not spend any time with my aunt, alone or even supervised. You will stay at my side at all times, or barred in our rooms if I should ever be required to step away from you. Above all, do not eat or drink anything without my approval—I shall task Blake and Bailey with overseeing our meals whilst we remain in residence to ensure that Lady Catherine has not enlisted someone to doctor your tea. We cannot be entirely certain that none of the tonic survives. I know you do not care for my coddling, but I require this of you in order to keep you and our child safe. Are we in agreement?”
Elizabeth nodded along throughout his diatribe. “Yes, of course. I have had quite enough of your aunt’s company to last me a lifetime, I assure you. What you ask is entirely reasonable, under the circumstances.”
“Good.” He turned to the colonel and held the diary out to him. “Godspeed.”