Page 67 of Intrigue and Inheritance (Crime and Consequences #3)

Mrs. Jenkinson’s confession hung in the air between them, the terrible truth now exposed to the light.

But rather than collapsing into remorse, the companion’s expression hardened, her pale eyes fixing on Elizabeth with sudden, venomous intensity.

Elizabeth felt herself take an involuntary step backward as the full force of the woman’s hatred struck her like a physical blow.

Years of repressed emotion seemed to have found its target at last, and Elizabeth realised with a chill that Mrs. Jenkinson was not finished speaking her mind.

“You,” Mrs. Jenkinson hissed, her thin finger pointing accusingly at Elizabeth. “You are the true architect of this disaster. Since the day you entered Darcy House, you have undermined everything I worked to achieve with Anne.”

“Mrs. Jenkinson,” Darcy began sternly, but the companion was beyond heeding him.

“Encouraging her independence. “ She spat the word. “Teaching her to question authority, to make her own choices. All those years I devoted to preparing her for her proper place in society, only to have you destroy it all in a matter of months.”

Elizabeth maintained her composure with effort. “Anne is a grown woman, not a child to be managed. She has every right to determine her own future.”

“Her future was determined at birth!” Mrs. Jenkinson’s voice rose to a near shriek. “She was meant to marry properly, to a gentleman who understood her delicate constitution, who would preserve Rosings as it should be.”

“You mean someone who would allow you to continue controlling her,” Elizabeth countered, her own anger rising despite her efforts to remain calm.

Mrs. Jenkinson laughed, a harsh, broken sound entirely devoid of mirth. “You know nothing of what I have sacrificed for her. Nothing of what might have been, had things gone as they should.”

She began to pace, her movements jerky and uncoordinated. “It should have been Anne,” she muttered, almost to herself. “Anne should have been the one.”

“The one what?” Elizabeth asked, though she feared she already knew the answer.

Mrs. Jenkinson stopped suddenly, turning to face Elizabeth with burning eyes. “The one to marry Mr. Darcy, of course! That was always the plan, the understanding between families. Anne and Mr. Darcy, uniting Pemberley and Rosings as it was meant to be.”

Though Elizabeth had suspected this sentiment, hearing it spoken aloud with such bitter conviction sent a chill through her. She glanced at Darcy, whose expression had hardened to granite.

“That supposed understanding existed only in Lady Catherine’s imagination,” he said coldly. “I never had any intention of marrying my cousin.”

“Because of her!” Mrs. Jenkinson cried, gesturing wildly toward Elizabeth. “This... this country nobody with nothing to recommend her but fine eyes and impertinent opinions! She bewitched you, turned you against your duty to your family.”

Elizabeth felt her cheeks flush with anger. “My marriage to Mr. Darcy is not relevant to your actions, Mrs. Jenkinson. You have confessed to murder and attempted murder. Those are the matters at hand.”

But Mrs. Jenkinson was beyond rational discussion now, her face contorted with a lifetime of suppressed resentment.

“I should have poisoned you instead!” she screamed, spittle flying from her lips.

“Removed you from the equation entirely! Then Anne could have married Mr. Darcy as planned and escaped both Rosings and Lady Catherine’s control.

She could have been happy at Pemberley, with someone worthy of her! ”

The room fell silent save for Mrs. Jenkinson’s ragged breathing. Elizabeth stared at the woman, momentarily speechless at the twisted logic that had led her to murder one person, accidentally kill another, and now wish death upon a third, all supposedly for Anne’s benefit.

When Elizabeth finally spoke, she kept her voice deliberately level.

“You claim to care for Anne, yet you refuse to acknowledge her as a person with her own desires and preferences.” She stepped forward, meeting Mrs. Jenkinson’s wild gaze directly.

“And you are quite mistaken in your calculations. Anne is now free of Lady Catherine’s control regardless, is she not?

Your accidental murder of Lady Catherine has accomplished that much, at least.”

Mrs. Jenkinson froze, her expression shifting as this truth penetrated her disordered thoughts. “Free...” she repeated, as though testing the word.

“Yes,” Elizabeth continued, seizing the opening. “Anne is now mistress of Rosings in her own right. She answers to no one, least of all Lady Catherine.”

Something altered in Mrs. Jenkinson’s demeanour then, a terrible clarity replacing her feverish anger. “You are right,” she said, her voice suddenly calm. “Lady Catherine is gone. Anne is free.”

She moved toward the dressing table where her personal items lay scattered. Elizabeth tensed, uncertain what the woman intended, but Darcy shifted position slightly, ready to intervene if necessary.

“All those years,” Mrs. Jenkinson murmured, her back to them as she sorted through her possessions. “Service, devotion, purpose. And now...” Her shoulders slumped. “And now there is nothing left for me.”

She turned to face them, a familiar small silver vial clutched in her hand. Elizabeth recognised it as the smelling salts container that Mrs. Jenkinson had perpetually carried, producing it at the slightest sign of distress from Anne or others.

“Anne will never forgive me,” Mrs. Jenkinson said with sudden, terrible certainty. “She will discover what I have done, what I attempted to do to Mr. Hislop. She will send me away.”

“Mrs. Jenkinson,” Darcy said cautiously, “you must face the consequences of your actions. The magistrate will be here shortly.”

A strange smile curved her thin lips. “The magistrate. Yes. Questions and accusations and eventually, the noose.” She shook her head slowly.

“I think not, Mr. Darcy. I chose this path the moment I decided Lord Joseph was unworthy of Anne. I knew then that I might one day face this moment. Better by my own hand than theirs.”

Elizabeth realised her intent a moment before she acted. “Mrs. Jenkinson, no!”

But the companion had already uncapped the vial.

“Please,” Elizabeth stepped forward, her hand outstretched. “This is not the answer.”

Mrs. Jenkinson’s smile widened, revealing yellowed teeth. “You are wrong, Mrs. Darcy. This is the only answer left to me.”

With a quick, practiced motion, she raised the vial to her lips. “Tell Anne...” she began, then seemed to reconsider. “No. Tell her nothing. Let her believe what she wishes of me.”

Darcy lunged forward, but it was too late. Mrs. Jenkinson had already tipped the contents of the vial into her mouth, swallowing convulsively. Her eyes never left Elizabeth’s face, a strange triumph lighting them even as her body tensed in anticipation of the pain to come.

“It seems I have managed one final act of independence myself,” she whispered, her voice already growing hoarse. “How very modern of me.”

Elizabeth could only stare in horror as Mrs. Jenkinson sank to her knees, the empty vial falling from her suddenly slack fingers.

The woman who had devoted her life to controlling Anne had made her final choice, denying justice its due process, claiming for herself the right to determine her own end just as she had determined those of others.

The terrible silence that followed seemed to stretch into eternity.

Elizabeth stood transfixed, unable to tear her gaze from Mrs. Jenkinson’s collapsing form, while Darcy remained frozen mid-stride, his outstretched hand a useless gesture now that the fatal liquid had been consumed.

The companion’s face contorted in a grimace that might have been pain or triumph, her eyes still fixed on Elizabeth’s with a terrible clarity, as though determined to witness the impact of her final act upon those who had discovered her crimes.

“Harrison!” Darcy’s voice broke the spell as he strode to the door, calling for the butler. “Send for Dr. Winters immediately, and dispatch a runner to Mr. Hargreaves with urgency. Tell him there has been another incident.”

Mrs. Jenkinson’s smile widened grotesquely, her teeth bared in a rictus of satisfaction even as the first tremors began to wrack her body. “Too late,” she gasped, her voice already thickening. “Always... too late for me.”

Elizabeth moved forward cautiously, her mind racing to understand what had just occurred. The vial lay where it had fallen from Mrs. Jenkinson’s hand. With careful movements, she retrieved it, bringing it cautiously to her nose.

The acrid scent that met her nostrils was nothing like the pungent ammonia of smelling salts. This was something else entirely, something that made her recoil instinctively, her stomach turning at the chemical smell.

Darcy returned to her side, his expression grim as he regarded the dying woman.

Mrs. Jenkinson had slumped to the floor entirely now, her body convulsing in the same terrible manner that Lady Catherine’s had the night before.

The frothy spittle forming at the corners of her mouth confirmed what Elizabeth already knew: the companion had consumed a substantial dose of arsenic.

“She must have carried two vials,” Darcy said, his voice low and tense. “One genuine, for appearance’s sake, and one containing the poison for her intended victims.”

Elizabeth glanced around the room, her gaze falling on the scattered items on the dressing table. “If that is so, then the genuine article must be among her possessions.”