Page 22 of Chasing Shadows

Samuel Reeds set the vials carefully into the box, joining those already arranged within. It was Christmas Eve morning, and three deliveries had gone out before. These, however, he had reserved for last—the choicest, the most important—the ones destined for Netherfield.

It had taken days of careful preparation to set the plan in motion.

Old Mr. Jones had baulked at first, declaring that gifts of physic were wasteful, even dangerous.

Such things, he argued, were not trifles to be given into every hand.

But Reeds, with smooth words and honeyed logic, had won him over.

What better token of goodwill could an apothecary send to his best patrons than draughts to soothe disordered nerves, and cordials to quiet restless nights?

Was not Christmastide the very season when society was most beset with such complaints, when festivities left minds overtaxed and bodies strained?

At length, Jones had yielded, convinced the gesture would strengthen their trade in the year to come.

And with his consent, Reeds’ design had taken root. This was the only pretext under which he could press his poison into Darcy’s hand. If a few families received harmless cordials in the bargain, it was but the smallest cost for so complete a revenge.

He lifted one vial and tilted it toward the light, studying the label with care. Every bottle was marked precisely. There could be no error. Each name bore its draught, each cordial its appointed place. Only one stop remained—one stop to bring the game to its conclusion.

Darcy had already known humiliation; that much Reeds had contrived, weaving false trails and twisting each death until it bore the appearance of his hand.

It pleased him to see the proud man stumble beneath the weight of suspicion, to watch every whispered doubt in society gnaw at his good name.

The killings themselves were nothing—swift, efficient, necessary.

The true artistry lay in their arrangement, in the evidence scattered with care, until every eye turned toward Darcy.

And Darcy’s own arrogance had made it so easy.

Wickham’s death, and the knife engraved with Darcy’s name, ought to have been the end of it, had not the colonel and the parish constable nearly caught him there.

That was to have been the last nail in Darcy’s coffin.

Yet his place in society, and the shelter of his alibis, had thus far spared him the noose.

Still, he had tasted despair, some portion of what Reeds’ sister had endured when driven to her ruin.

He had watched as Darcy’s pride preserved him—pride too strong to let him fall by his own hand. Despite all, Darcy had held his head high, striding through society as though untouched, as though his arrogance alone were armour enough.

His jaw hardened as he thought of Georgiana.

At first, he had not marked her for punishment, believing her too young, too pliant, too innocent of the crime, too far out of reach.

But seeing her at Netherfield had been a revelation.

Darcy himself had delivered her into his grasp, unwitting and unguarded.

A gift in disguise. A sister for a sister. A life for lives.

With bitterness searing his breast, Samuel Reeds gathered up the box and turned toward the door. The hour had come.

***

“A gift,” Darcy repeated at last, his gaze resting upon the box the apothecary’s assistant had set upon the table, its neat arrangement of glass vials glinting faintly in the morning light.

The household was gathered in the drawing room after breakfast, the fire well-stoked against the chill, the ladies disposed upon the sofas while Bingley stood near the hearth in easy spirits.

Samuel Reeds bowed low, his countenance all ease and civility.

“Indeed, sir. Mr. Jones sends these with his compliments. His children and grandchildren are gathered about him for Christmastide, and he will spend this season in their company. As for myself, I am bound for Dover, where I am to pass Christmastide with my aunt. Since I shall not be at liberty on Boxing Day, I thought it most proper to deliver these tokens today. Cordials and draughts, sir—what better present for the season? A time of merriment, to be sure, but likewise of restless nights and overwrought nerves. Mr. Jones believed it fitting that his best patrons should be remembered.”

Bingley’s face brightened with unfeigned delight. “Now that is the very mark of a considerate tradesman! Thoughtful, attentive, and with a proper eye to business. Excellent, Reeds, most excellent. Mr. Jones has outdone himself.”

Mrs. Hurst offered a murmur of approval, while Caroline, lounging upon the sofa with studied languor, extended a hand toward the box as though she needed only to claim what was hers by right.

“How very clever. I declare I have been worn to pieces with fatigue. If one of these bottles be for the nerves, I shall like it immediately.”

“Caroline, pray wait,” Mrs. Hurst said quickly, laying a hand upon her sister’s arm. “At least allow Mr. Reeds to explain which is which.”

Reeds inclined his head gravely, his manner deferential yet assured.

“Every vial is properly marked. They are named, in fact, since Mr. Jones has long attended this household and knows well which physic each has had occasion for in the past, and which, in these unsettled times, might be needed again. Here is one for you, madam, and another for Mrs. Hurst—a cordial to soothe the nerves, a draught to ease sleeplessness. For Mr. Bingley, a tonic to strengthen the constitution.” He paused, and when his eyes settled upon Georgiana, Darcy felt an unwelcome prickle of disquiet.

“And for Miss Darcy,” Reeds continued smoothly, “if her brother will allow it, a small draught to aid in rest. When I came with Mr. Jones to attend Miss Bennet some weeks ago, Miss Elizabeth mentioned her arrival. I perceived even then the weariness of travel upon her, and thought it fitting she should be remembered also. Nothing strong, sir, I assure you. Only a gentle remedy, a trifle to ease the mind and secure sound sleep.”

Georgiana coloured, her eyes flickering to Darcy’s face in timid appeal.

He inclined his head in quiet encouragement, his own features calm, though some inward hesitation stirred.

Reeds had already attended him with physic once before, and no harm had followed; there was little reason to suspect ill.

“Very good of you, very good indeed,” Bingley exclaimed warmly. “That is the very thing, Darcy, do you not agree? A professional who not only supplies but anticipates. It is the mark of true excellence in a tradesman.”

Darcy inclined his head with politeness. The offering was unusual, not the sort of Christmas token he was accustomed to, yet he could hardly refuse a gesture sent in Mr. Jones’s name.

Reeds bowed again, his smile pleasant, his tone even.

“If I may add, sir, Mr. Jones desired his patrons should find the draughts of immediate comfort. A little preservative has been used in their making, but not so much as to render them overly potent. Thus, they are best taken within a day or two, lest their virtue diminish. After all, is not a cordial most welcome when first delivered, when the mind is overwrought and the body in need of ease?”

Mrs. Hurst inclined her head with a murmur of approval. “That is most considerate indeed.”

“And entirely sensible,” Bingley added, beaming. “Caroline, you see? It is quite proper to try it now.”

Caroline had already broken the seal upon the vial bearing her name. “My nerves have been undone by all these murders in the town. I shall not wait another moment.” She raised the glass toward her lips, her hand trembling slightly with eagerness.

She had only lifted the glass to her lips when a crash split the air. The door flew wide, and every head in the room turned at once toward the intruder.

Colonel Fitzwilliam strode in, snow clinging to his cloak, his eyes alight with fire. Two militia men pressed close at his heels. His voice rang like a shot through the chamber. “Hold! For heaven’s sake, let no one drink!”

The room was struck into stillness. Caroline froze, the vial suspended an inch from her lips.

Bingley leapt to his feet, his colour drained.

Mrs. Hurst caught at her husband’s sleeve, her eyes wide with alarm.

Georgiana uttered a soft cry and pressed herself against Darcy, clutching his arm with desperate strength.

Darcy himself felt his blood chill as his cousin’s words reverberated in the silence.

Reeds turned with deliberate slowness. For the first time Darcy beheld something beyond the mask of civility—an edge of defiance, dark and sharp, which he subdued with effort.

“Cousin?” Darcy demanded, rising swiftly. “What is this?”

Fitzwilliam’s gaze did not waver. “This man is no honest servant of Mr. Jones. His true name is Younge—the brother of Mrs. Younge, who conspired with Wickham in Ramsgate. She is dead by her own hand, and he seeks revenge. These vials are most likely poisoned. Most likely the one meant for Darcy and Georgiana. Perhaps every one of them.”

Gasps broke from every side. Caroline’s hand shook so violently the vial clinked against the table.

Bingley’s astonished gaze flew from Fitzwilliam to Reeds, his lips parted, yet no sound emerged.

Mrs. Hurst clung to her husband’s arm, her eyes darting to the box as though the very glass within it might betray her.

Georgiana buried her face against Darcy’s sleeve, her frame trembling.

The mask had slipped entirely. Hatred contorted Reeds’ countenance. With a sudden lunge, he made as if to break past them, but Darcy surged forward and struck him across the face with all the force of his arm. Reeds staggered and fell, blood springing from his nose.

“I know nothing of this!” he spat hoarsely, pressing his hand to his face. “This is falsehood—some cruel mistake!”

Fitzwilliam advanced, his jaw tight, and drew a small case from his coat.

“No mistake. I found Mrs. Younge’s landlady in Ramsgate.

She recalled a man who claimed to be her lodger’s brother.

His error was not knowing that his sister preserved a miniature, one that favoured his likeness from years past. The landlady noticed it and gave it to me.

” He snapped the case open, his eyes narrowing.

“Imagine my astonishment when I recognised the very apothecary’s assistant who has so often frequented this house. ”

His gaze shifted to Darcy. “Even you, cousin, urged me to strike him from suspicion when first we spoke of the matter.”

All eyes fixed upon Reeds. His bloodied lips twisted into a bitter smile, and a low laugh escaped him, harsh and jagged.

“Yes. And had you but delayed another hour or two, Darcy would have drunk his draught, and his precious sister too. A sister for a sister. A life for lives. You took mine, and I would have yours.”

Caroline shrieked and hurled the vial from her hand. It shattered upon the hearth, and at once a bitter odour rose as the fire hissed and consumed it, the smoke stinging the nostrils. Mrs. Hurst coughed, waving her hand before her face, her eyes watering.

The officers seized Reeds, wrenching him upright. He offered no resistance, only fixed Darcy with burning eyes. “You should have died,” he hissed through bloodied teeth. “You and all your kind. You deserve to die.”

Darcy’s breath came fast, fury and horror mingling.

Georgiana had clung to him again, her small hand trembling upon his sleeve.

His gaze dropped to the vial bearing his own name, glinting innocently upon the table.

But for Fitzwilliam’s timely arrival, he would have drunk it that very night, driven by restless sleeplessness.

A wave of cold swept through him at the thought.

“Take him,” Fitzwilliam commanded, his tone like iron. “His lodgings are already searched. His bags were packed. He most likely planned to deliver the poison and flee. Providence alone prevented him. The magistrate will see the rest.”

Reeds gave no reply, only baring his teeth in a bloodied grin as he was dragged from the room.

A heavy silence followed in his wake, unnatural and suffocating. The shattered glass hissed upon the hearth. Georgiana’s breath came uneven, and Darcy laid his hand firmly over hers, steadying her, though in his breast he felt the dreadful weight of what had so nearly been.