Page 69 of Intrigue and Inheritance (Crime and Consequences #3)

Chapter Twenty-Four

Anne de Bourgh sat motionless by the window in her bedchamber at Darcy House, her hands folded so tightly in her lap that her knuckles shone white against her black mourning gown.

Outside, London continued its relentless rhythm, carriages clattering past, voices calling, life proceeding with normality.

Inside, her world had shattered. Mrs. Jenkinson, her companion of many years, had murdered her mother.

Had murdered Lord Joseph. Had attempted to murder Mr. Hislop.

The words formed in her mind with crystal clarity, yet remained somehow incomprehensible, as though they were in a language she had not learned to speak.

One full day had passed since Darcy and Elizabeth had come to her, their faces grave and their voices gentle.

She had been in Georgiana’s room, the three younger ladies attempting to distract themselves with conversation.

Darcy had asked to speak with her privately, and something in his expression had caused Georgiana to squeeze her hand before releasing it.

“There is no gentle way to impart such news,” Darcy had said once they were alone in his study, Elizabeth at his side. “Mrs. Jenkinson has confessed to the murder of Lord Joseph and the attempted murder of Mr. Hislop, which resulted in your mother’s death through tragic mischance.”

Anne remembered how the room had seemed to tilt beneath her feet, how Elizabeth had guided her to a chair as Darcy continued the dreadful narrative.

Mrs. Jenkinson’s twisted devotion. The twin vials of smelling salts, one genuine, one deadly.

The confession, followed by her final, terrible act of swallowing the poison herself rather than face justice.

“I do not understand,” Anne had whispered, the words sounding remote to her own ears. “She was always so... dutiful.”

“Duty twisted into possession,” Elizabeth had replied softly. “She believed she was protecting you, in her own disturbed way.”

Anne pressed her fingertips to her temples now, as though she might physically rearrange her thoughts into some semblance of order.

Her mother was dead. Murdered, albeit accidentally, by the woman who had attended Anne since childhood.

The same woman who had deliberately killed Lord Joseph simply because he had shown interest in Anne.

The same woman who had attempted to murder Mr. Hislop for the same reason.

Grief for her mother washed over Anne in a sudden, unexpected wave.

Despite their difficult relationship, despite Lady Catherine’s controlling nature and dismissal of Anne’s wishes, she had been Anne’s mother.

There had been moments of tenderness buried among the criticisms, rare instances when Lady Catherine’s protective facade had slipped to reveal something warmer.

Anne recalled a childhood illness when her mother had sat beside her bed for three days, refusing to leave even when the physician assured her the fever had broken.

She remembered her tenth birthday, when Lady Catherine had presented her with a small music box that played the lullaby her father used to hum.

Moments of genuine connection, scattered like rare jewels across the landscape of their relationship.

Yet alongside her grief lurked a shameful sense of release that made Anne’s cheeks burn with guilt.

No more would she face her mother’s constant criticism, her dismissal of Anne’s interests, her determination to control every aspect of her daughter’s life.

No more would she be reduced to a silent observer of her own existence, her preferences irrelevant, her desires inconsequential.

She was free now, truly free to determine her own path, and the realisation filled her with both exhilaration and crushing guilt.

What kind of daughter felt relief at her mother’s death?

“A natural one,” Elizabeth had said when Anne, in a moment of anguish, had voiced this thought aloud. “Your feelings do not diminish your grief or your capacity for love. They merely acknowledge the complexity of your relationship.”

But more terrible even than her mother’s death was Mrs. Jenkinson’s betrayal.

Years of care that Anne now recognised as control.

Years of tonics and remedies and careful management, all serving Mrs. Jenkinson’s obsessive need to possess rather than protect.

Had there ever been genuine affection in the woman’s devotion?

Or had it always been this twisted version of care, this deadly determination to control Anne’s life regardless of her wishes?

Anne recalled Mrs. Jenkinson’s strange behaviour after Lady Catherine’s death, her inappropriate remarks about Anne being “free now.” At the time, Anne had attributed it to shock, to the companion’s disordered emotions in the face of tragedy.

Now she recognised it as triumph, as satisfaction that Lady Catherine could no longer interfere with Mrs. Jenkinson’s plans for Anne’s future.

Plans that apparently included eliminating any gentleman who dared show interest in Anne without Mrs. Jenkinson’s approval.

The quiet knock at her door pulled Anne from her spiralling thoughts. She hastily wiped her eyes, smoothed her skirts, and called, “Come in.”

Lord and Lady Matlock entered with the careful expressions of those approaching the bereaved. Lady Matlock immediately moved to sit beside Anne, taking her hands with gentle firmness.

“My dear girl,” she said softly. “We have come to offer whatever comfort we can in this dreadful time.”

Lord Matlock remained standing, his aristocratic features composed but his eyes revealing genuine concern. “Anne, you are not alone in this. Whatever assistance you require, we are here to provide it.”

The simple kindness in their voices nearly undid Anne’s fragile composure. “Thank you,” she managed. “I find myself at a loss.”

“Naturally,” Lady Matlock squeezed her hands. “No one could be prepared for such circumstances. But practical matters must be addressed, if you feel able to discuss them.”

Anne nodded, grateful for the shift to tangible concerns. “The funeral,” she said. “I must return to Rosings to arrange it.”

“We shall accompany you,” Lord Matlock stated, not as an offer but as a simple fact. “Catherine was my sister, and while our relationship was often... challenging, she deserves proper honours. Moreover, you should not face this alone.”

“We shall stay at Rosings as long as needed to help you settle matters and take your rightful place as mistress of the estate,” Lady Matlock added.

Mistress of Rosings . The title felt foreign to Anne, though she had been its presumptive mistress since her father’s passing.

In reality, Lady Catherine had maintained absolute control over every aspect of the estate, consulting Anne only rarely and dismissing her suggestions with condescension.

Now Rosings would be hers in truth, its management her responsibility, its future in her hands.

The prospect was simultaneously terrifying and exhilarating.

“I know so little of managing an estate,” Anne confessed, voicing her deepest fear. “Mother never... that is, I was not permitted much involvement.”

“You know more than you believe,” Lord Matlock assured her. “And what you do not know, you will learn. You have a sharp mind, Anne, and a good heart. Those qualities will serve you better than a lifetime of experience without them.”

“And you will have advisors,” Lady Matlock added practically. “The steward, the housekeeper, your uncle and myself. No one expects you to assume complete control immediately.”

Anne felt a small seed of resolve take root amidst her grief and confusion.

She would return to Rosings, would face the responsibilities that awaited her there.

She would honour her mother with a proper burial, then begin the task of reshaping the estate according to her own vision.

And perhaps, in time, she might find a way to reconcile her complex feelings about both her mother and Mrs. Jenkinson, to forgive herself for her sense of freedom while acknowledging the genuine grief that accompanied it.

“I shall be ready to depart tomorrow,” she said, straightening her shoulders slightly. “And I am deeply grateful for your support.”

As her aunt and uncle took their leave, promising to return later to discuss specific arrangements, Anne turned back to the window.

The London street continued its busy existence, indifferent to her personal tragedy.

Yet somehow, its very indifference offered a strange comfort.

Life continued, regardless of individual grief or confusion. And so would she.

Anne folded a simple black gown, placing it carefully into the trunk that would accompany her to Rosings on the morrow.

The wardrobe that had been filled with London finery now contained only mourning attire, hastily procured by Elizabeth’s modiste.

Black crepe, bombazine, and paramatta wool, the fabrics of grief and duty.

Her fingers lingered on the sleeve of the gown, tracing the line of jet beads that adorned the cuff.

Mother would have approved of such proper mourning, she thought, then immediately winced at the familiar impulse to seek Lady Catherine’s approval even now.

A soft knock interrupted her melancholy reflections. Elizabeth entered, closing the door quietly behind her.

“Anne,” she began gently, “Mr. Hislop has called.”

Anne turned, surprise momentarily replacing grief on her features. “Mr. Hislop? But I am in mourning. I cannot receive visitors.”

“Ordinarily, I would agree,” Elizabeth replied. “Given the... extraordinary circumstances, I felt some flexibility might be permitted. Mr. Hislop was nearly a victim himself, after all. And he has been most insistent about ensuring your wellbeing before your departure.”