Page 62 of To Love And To Cherish (Pride And Prejudice Variation #3)

Darcy rode beside the carriage, Rowan’s gait smooth and steady, the pale winter sun casting a wan glow over the frost-covered hedgerows.

The chill air carried the faint scent of coal smoke from the city they had left behind, and the fields lay in muted shades of brown and grey.

He scarcely noticed the surroundings. His thoughts were fixed upon the letter folded in his breast pocket, written in Mrs. Jenkinson’s cramped, nervous hand, detailing Anne’s decline.

Weight loss. Nightmares. Trembling limbs.

Delusions. The letter had ended with a plea: I fear Miss Anne will die if something is not done.

When he’d shared the contents with Richard, his cousin had turned grave. “Let us go,” Richard had said. “Today.”

Kitty was to be returned to Kent to continue her pursuit of Mr. Grant, but Lydia had pleaded to accompany her, not having seen Mary or Charlotte in years. Elizabeth, too, had wished to go to lend her support, and he had not refused.

Darcy glanced at the three young women who slumped in their seats, fast asleep after a night of chatter in Lydia’s room.

Elizabeth, meanwhile, was watching him. He felt her quiet gaze through the carriage window, and it warmed him.

He turned his head and caught her eye. She smiled, and the sight of it eased some tightness in his chest.

It was a comfort he hadn’t known he’d needed.

He took rooms for the coachman and grooms at the local inn, uncertain whether Lady Catherine would permit guests at Rosings.

Mary kept the young women at the parsonage, and the Bertrams welcomed him and Elizabeth.

Richard, the only person free to enter the estate uncontested, would plant himself at Rosings and dig into the truth behind Anne’s illness.

He only hoped they were not too late.

The following day brought a distraction: A visit from the Grants. They arrived at Charlotte’s home with their son, Daniel, expressly to meet Catherine’s sister and her husband.

After introductions, Darcy turned to the elder Mr. Grant. “Did you attend Cambridge, sir?”

“I did indeed,” Mr. Grant replied.

“My father and I both studied there. Might you have known George Darcy?”

Mr. Grant’s face lit with long-forgotten memories. “George Darcy studied logic and mathematics at Peterhouse; we were rivals in all things. Then you are of the Darcys of Pemberley, in Derbyshire.”

Darcy inclined his head. “Yes, sir, unhappily, my father passed away several years ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, my boy. Your father was a fine man. Do you have any siblings?” Mr. Grant asked.

“Yes, a sister, she’s just fifteen.”

“And how are you connected to Catherine Bennet?”

“By marriage. My wife, Elizabeth, is Catherine’s sister.”

The man gave a satisfied nod. “Mr. Darcy, I believe our families may soon be connected. My son has set his sights on Miss Catherine.”

Darcy hid his delight and wondered why it was taking the young man so long.

“I am glad to hear it,” he said. “Indeed, it had been my wife’s intention to collect Catherine and bring her to London. She wished to present her to society, but if your son has formed an attachment, we will not stand in the way. Does he mean to propose soon?”

Mr. Grant coughed into his hand. “Before the week is out.”

“Very good, sir. I shall inform my wife accordingly.”

The next day, at noon, a carriage was heard in the drive of the Bertrams’ home. Kitty flew through the front door and wrapped Elizabeth in an exuberant embrace.

“Where is Mr. Darcy?” she cried. Catching sight of him, she took his hands in hers. “You brought Daniel to the point, he offered this morning, and I accepted him! We are to be married from Longbourn in eight weeks. I owe it all to you, and to Elizabeth and Mary, for inviting me here.”

Elizabeth laughed, delighted with the outcome. “Kitty, I am so happy for you. He is a fine man.”

“Reticent,” Elizabeth added later, with a wink. “I cannot imagine how you managed it.”

Kitty launched into a story composed mostly of carriage rides, parish visits, and her own determined charm. Darcy privately thought the young man needn’t speak much; Kitty had enough animation for them both.

It was decided that she would return with them to London and be sent home to Longbourn under careful escort: a maid, a trusted groom, and a stable man armed with a blunderbuss.

Later that day, Darcy and Richard rode to Rosings. Lady Catherine greeted them with the usual condescension and little warmth.

“And my cousin? I don’t see Anne.” Richard asked.

“That good-for-nothing girl has taken to her bed,” she snapped.

“What is the nature of the illness?” Darcy asked.

“There is nothing wrong with her; it is all in her head. I have suffered with that girl all these years! I do not know how I have borne it.”

Darcy’s jaw tightened. “I mean to see my cousin. Is Mrs. Jenkinson with her?”

“Yes, though what good she does, I cannot say. I ought to send her away; she is like an unnecessary appendage.”

Richard said gently, “Aunt, Mrs. Jenkinson is important to Anne. I doubt Anne would tolerate her removal.”

Lady Catherine dismissed him with a wave. “Go, then. But return to speak with me of her future.”

As they walked away, Richard muttered, “We’ve known that speech by heart these twenty years.”

“Yes,” Darcy replied. “‘It was the favorite wish of your mother...’” He shook his head. “I could recite it in my sleep.”

Upstairs, Darcy tapped on the bedchamber door, and Mrs. Jenkinson opened it a crack. “Goodness,” she said. “Mr. Darcy! Colonel Fitzwilliam! I had begun to fear you would not come.”

“We wish to see our cousin,” Darcy said gently.

“Yes, please, please come in. My girl is very ill.”

They stepped into the dim room. Anne lay motionless, her skin flushed, her limbs trembling slightly. Darcy touched her hand. She was burning with fever.

“Annie is out of her mind,” Mrs. Jenkinson said through tears. “My girl speaks to her father and others who are not present. Her hands and legs shake. She was complaining of heart palpitations when she was coherent enough to speak. And my lovely girl hasn’t eaten for two days.”

“Has she seen a doctor?”

“Yes, Dr. Clark came this morning. He says there is nothing more to be done.” Mrs. Jenkinson pointed to a bottle. “I forgot to show this to Dr. Clark. I believe it is harming her. She began to fall ill five or six weeks ago, when she first started taking it as a restorative.”

Darcy picked it up. A dark brown glass vial labeled simply Grey Powder .

“Richard,” he said, holding it out.

“I’ve never heard of it.”

Darcy frowned. “Where did she obtain this restorative?”

“A peddler passed through the area five or six weeks ago, and Lady Catherine purchased two bottles from him. When Anne finished the first, her ladyship supplied her with this second.”

“I’ll take it,” Darcy said. “We’ll try to learn what it is. In the meantime, give her only tea or water.”

“Yes, sir, I’ll keep trying, but she isn’t responding, and I don’t know how to make her take any.”

Outside, he turned to Richard. “I need to speak with Elizabeth. Perhaps there is something we can do to help Anne.”

At the Bertrams’, he found her with Charlotte, embroidery in hand.

“How is your cousin?” Elizabeth asked, looking up.

Darcy’s voice was grim. “I believe she is dying.”

He explained her symptoms, then produced the bottle. Elizabeth’s eyes narrowed as she read the label.

“Grey powder?” she repeated. “William, that is a purgative made with chalk and mercury. It’s poisonous. Dr. Edgerton once chased a peddler out of Hertfordshire for selling this particular powder.”

“Mercury?” Darcy echoed.

“Mercury must be listed in my book,” she said, rising. “The one you gave me. I packed it in my small trunk.”

“I’ll get it,” he said and strode out of the room. Upstairs in their bedchamber, he located it in her trunk. As he pulled the book free, three old letters slipped from the cover, written in his hand and posted from Paris, dated eighteen hundred and five.

She had kept his letters.

He gazed at them for a moment, then carefully returned them to the box where the book had been packed and opened the large tome to the chapter on poisons.

The symptoms chilled him: tremors, fever, hallucinations, vomiting, seizures, even death.

He carried the book back downstairs and handed it to Richard. “I think she’s been poisoned.”

They discussed the possibility of poisoning and the recommended remedies listed in the chapter, which were believed to be of benefit.

Charlotte disposed of the toxic powder. Elizabeth offered milk thistle and charcoal from her own supply, and Darcy sent to the apothecary for a larger bottle of the milk thistle tincture.

They would have the Rosings kitchen send up warm milk at regular intervals.

One obstacle remained.

“Elizabeth,” he said, “when Lady Catherine learns of our marriage, she will, in all likelihood, refuse you entry.”

Richard intervened. “We will not tell Lady Catherine. Elizabeth, we’ll slip you into the house through a side door.”

Elizabeth nodded. “I will help in any way I can. Since she is no longer responsive or able to take water, we must administer fluids by means of a clyster.”

Darcy asked, “What is a clyster?”

Elizabeth replied, “It is an effective means of administering fluids, though I am embarrassed to speak of it in mixed company.”

Darcy said dryly, “Then pray, do not. I daresay we are all the happier not knowing.” Then he cleared his throat. “Could you teach someone to use it?”

"Yes, a strong-minded maid could manage it, with proper instruction.”

Charlotte sent for a boy to fetch a clyster from the apothecary. Elizabeth gathered her supplies.

Darcy watched her move, swift and sure, and felt a flicker of hope that his cousin might yet survive. Then he whispered to himself, “I just hope we’re not too late.”

Elizabeth met his gaze. “We won’t let her die without doing all we can to save her.”

They returned to Rosings together. It pained him that his lovely wife must be secreted in through the servants’ door. She did not deserve such treatment, yet she submitted to it willingly, for the sake of helping a woman in need.