Chapter 12 #2
“Mrs. Jenkinson,” Mr. Darcy answered. “Her husband thought similarly to Lady Catherine; therefore, she learned to prepare such things herself. Lady Catherine has put her in charge of the stillroom and oversees all compounding. She has done so for years. No maid touches the herbs or preparations unless under her supervision.” He paused.
“And the paper is readily available throughout the manor house. All the writing desks are stocked with it.”
“One lady’s companion to another.” Elizabeth’s heart hammered. “She could have gifted a tin of lip protectant without anyone remarking on it.”
He nodded. “We must prove it.”
Elizabeth leaned forward, both palms flat on the desk, and looked at the collection of evidence. “Is there a way to test the lip protectant? To see if it contains the poison?”
Mr. Darcy shrugged. “I am not sure. But if anyone has that knowledge, it is Bow Street.”
“We must get the tin of lip protectant from Willow Grange.”
He nodded. “I will go tomorrow.”
The fire snapped behind them. Elizabeth gathered the clues and stacked them with deliberate care.
She said, “We are agreed, then.”
He inclined his head. “We are.”
She could not help herself. “Mr. Darcy, may I ask why you trust my judgment in this?”
He smiled. “Because, Miss Elizabeth, you see what others miss. It is a rare talent.”
She let herself smile back. “You are not so poor a detective yourself, sir.”
He reached for his hat, then paused at the door. “If you would permit me, I will return tomorrow, after I have made inquiries of the staff at Rosings and retrieve the tin. I do not wish to risk your safety by leaving you alone in this.”
Elizabeth nodded. “You are welcome any time, Mr. Darcy.”
He blinked, then bowed to her.
She bobbed a curtsy in response.
After a long glance, he left, leaving behind the heat of the fire, the dry scent of lavender, and the fragile comfort of two people who, for the first time, found themselves on the same side.
Elizabeth did not close the door completely until he disappeared into the darkness.
~%~
In the morning, the April sun had dissolved the previous night’s frost, and the branches outside Elizabeth’s window sparkled with dew.
It was a day fit for plans and revelations.
As Mr. Darcy had asked of her the previous night, Elizabeth skipped her morning walk since he would not be available to escort her.
Charlotte’s presence at breakfast was full of contained energy. She watched Elizabeth with an intensity that signaled both suspicion and hope, as though she was confident her guest would solve the crime before supper.
Because they had remained at Rosings well into the evening, Mr. Collins left much later than usual the following morning.
A few minutes afterward, Mr. Darcy returned as promised, entering with an ease that had been absent the previous evening.
Carrying a folio of notes, he had the air of a man who had put the early hours to good use.
As soon as Charlotte excused herself to the garden, he followed Elizabeth to the correspondence room with an efficiency that brooked no ceremony.
They took up positions as before, she at the desk, he beside it, one hand braced on the back of the chair, the other holding the folio as though it might leap from his grasp if left unattended.
He spoke first. “I have made inquiries.”
Elizabeth inclined her head. “And?”
“I have confirmed that Lady Catherine’s household admits no commercial cosmetics, as I said.
All such preparations are made in the Rosings stillroom, which is managed entirely by Mrs. Jenkinson.
I asked Lady Catherine’s housekeeper whether anyone else had access.
She said no. Even the kitchen staff do not enter without direct orders. ”
Elizabeth asked, “You are certain that Mrs. Jenkinson keeps a key?”
“She and Aunt Catherine have the only keys,” said Mr. Darcy. “All receipts are in Mrs. Jenkinson’s hand: every preparation, every compound, every inventory of the raw stock. I checked the books myself this morning. There is no record of any other hand.”
Elizabeth let herself sit back, considering. She closed her eyes, and for a moment, her mind organized the running of the stillroom like a map.
“She prepares the cosmetics,” Elizabeth said, voice low. “She distributes them. She would know precisely what each woman in the house prefers, when they run out, when they might need a new supply.”
Mr. Darcy nodded, not moving. “Mrs. Collins, as well.”
Elizabeth widened her eyes. “I will have a conversation with Charlotte about that.”
“I thought as much,” Mr. Darcy said softly.
“Mrs. Jenkinson is,” Elizabeth continued, “invisible to those she serves. From her years spent at Rosings, she would have had the opportunity to learn every turn of the maze and every unobserved moment in the day.”
Mr. Darcy nodded once more. “She has been Anne’s companion since she was a girl, ever since she no longer required a nursemaid. She has been employed in the household longer than any other person.”
Elizabeth’s thoughts sped. “If Mrs. Blackstone visited Rosings, it would have been in the company of her mistress. The two companions would be paired. Mrs. Jenkinson would have ample opportunity to observe, to offer a gift, to effect a courtesy.”
Mr. Darcy finished the thought, “A gift prepared in the stillroom, delivered to her at Willow Grange with a note, or even by hand. Or slipped into her coat pocket as she departed. A new lip protectant, with the same scent, the same texture as one would expect—save for the one ingredient.”
Elizabeth went very still. She looked up at him. In that moment, there was no barrier between their minds, not the smallest screen of pride or habit.
“She would never have refused it,” Elizabeth said. “Not from a woman of Mrs. Jenkinson’s standing, a companion to Miss Anne de Bourgh at Rosings Park.”
“Nor would she have suspected anything would be amiss,” said Mr. Darcy. “It is not a woman’s habit to doubt the integrity of a gift meant for her comfort.”
Elizabeth let her hands fall to the desk, open, as if in surrender. “The note that summoned her to the maze was a feint. The real weapon was already in her hands.”
Mr. Darcy’s lips compressed. “I was able to obtain the tin from Willow Grange.”
“The lip protectant?”
He nodded.
Her fingers itched to hold it. “May I see it—”
“Absolutely not.” His eyes hardened.
She raised her chin. “I did not touch it that day, nor was I planning to touch it today, sir.”
“You opened the tin that day. You smelled it.” He clenched his jaw, but there was something in his eyes that spoke of vulnerability. “It is a miracle it did not kill you.”
She could not break his gaze, but she blushed with the implications of his words.
Did he… did he still care?
“It matters not.” Mr. Darcy inhaled deeply and looked away at the window. “I have sent it by private messenger to Mr. Roberts, my acquaintance at the Bow Street Runners. My man has instructions to wait for an answer. If anyone has a way of testing its contents, it would be them.”
“Ah,” Elizabeth said and reached for the clue that had started this. She set the blue-tinted page beside the smudged scrap, matching their torn edges once again—not with any expectation that new answers would materialize, but to remind herself of it.
For a moment, neither of them spoke. The fire in the grate had not yet been lit; the warmth of the room came only from the sunlight and from the proximity of two minds working in harmony.
When she spoke, Elizabeth’s voice was softer than she expected. “We cannot accuse her on this alone.”
“We cannot,” Mr. Darcy agreed. “But if you are right, and I am certain you are, the answer to my inquiry will confirm it.”
Elizabeth closed her eyes, then opened them again. “How does one trap a person whose entire life is invisibility?”
Mr. Darcy’s answer was immediate. “You see her. You have already let her know you have seen her. Wait to see how she acts now that her mask is noticed.”
Elizabeth raised one eyebrow. “I must say I am tempted to admire her skill.”
He let himself smile. “There is a certain poetry to her performance.”
A beat passed, long and slow.
He said, “You have solved it, Miss Elizabeth.”
She shook her head. “We have solved it. You provided the means; I only followed the thread.” She paused. “We still do not know why she would do such a thing. It had to be something particular against Mrs. Blackstone.”
“Unless she eventually explains the reason, I am not certain we will ever know.” He considered her, then inclined his head—a small, precise gesture of respect.
“I must return to Rosings, but I will not make a report to Lady Catherine about this until we have news from Mr. Roberts at Bow Street. I trust you will be safe until then?”
“I am not in danger, Mr. Darcy. You are the one who will be in the same house with her.”
He hesitated. “I would like to hand over the blue page and torn fragment to the coroner.”
She nodded and held them out.
Gently taking them from her, he bowed and left.
Elizabeth sat alone for a long time, the sunlight slanting across the desk.
She wondered, for a moment, when she might be at liberty to explain all of this to Jane—not just the solution to the murder, but the way it felt to move so closely in step with someone who had once seemed the opposite of herself.
She hoped it would be soon. And that she would find her sister happier than when she had last seen her.
Closing her eyes, she allowed herself to feel the warmth of her victory, for a little while.
When she rose, she was resolved that, when the time came, she would let Mrs. Jenkinson know that she had been seen.