The Poisoned Proposal, page 7
part #3 of Dark Darcy Series
The old man looked up at her, his weathered face crinkling in a smile of pleasure. “Thank ye kindly, miss.”
“Pray, how do you get them to bloom so beautifully? My sisters and I have long attempted to cultivate such roses in our garden back in Hertfordshire, but they are continually plagued with aphids.”
“Ah… This be the secret.” He held up a small jar of brown liquid. “Concentrated tobacco solution. ’Tis the best natural pesticide. Ye just apply it to the stems.”
“Indeed?” said Elizabeth. “Then I must beg a recipe from you!”
The old man smiled, showing some missing teeth. “Gladly, miss. ’Tis simple to make—ye simply crush the dried tobacco leaves real fine, then mix ’em in a solution of water. I’d offer ye some to take back with ye, but I’m low on stock at the moment, as me other jar has gone missin’. But Missus Collins at the parsonage may have some available. She got the recipe from me not a se’enight ago and has no doubt made her own supply.”
“I am Mrs Collins’s friend,” said Elizabeth, returning his smile, “And I am currently residing at the parsonage. I shall ask her for the recipe.” She looked around. “Pray, can you tell me where Miss de Bourgh is? I have come to call on her and I was under the impression that she was here in the gardens.”
The old gardener chuckled. “Aye, she’s always loved it here, Miss Anne, ever since she were a wee child.” He spoke with the familiarity and affection of an old family servant. “Always scamperin’ about after me, tryin’ to learn the best ways o’ tendin’ to the trees and flowers. Though to no avail. Black thumbs, she has.” He shook his head. “Her and that Mr Edwin—a right pair, the two of ’em when they were little ’uns. Always up to some mischief together.” He sighed. “Ah…’tis a mighty fine seein’ ’em walkin’ about the gardens together again.” He seemed to recollect Elizabeth’s question and nodded towards the house. “Miss Anne was here earlier, but that Mrs Jenkinson came t’ get her for study in the library. If yer ask me, some fresh air and sunshine’d do more good for the girl than bein’ shut up in the house…” He shook his head.
Elizabeth shared his opinion and her dislike for Mrs Jenkinson intensified, but she kept her thoughts to herself. Thanking him, she made her way back into the main house and was shown by a footman into the vast, gloomy library. She had been bracing herself for an encounter with the unpleasant lady’s companion and was relieved to find Anne sitting by herself at a desk in the corner. An Argand lamp provided some extra illumination and, in its yellow light, Elizabeth could see several leather-bound volumes open around Anne, as well as several more in stacks at her elbow.
The girl looked up as Elizabeth approached and her eyes lit up with pleasure. “Miss Bennet!”
“I hope you do not think me presumptuous,” said Elizabeth. “But I was concerned about your welfare and took it upon myself to call to see how you were.”
“I am well, thank you,” said Anne, though her pale face and the dark shadows beneath her eyes belied her words. She smiled shyly. “It is extremely kind of you to think of me, Miss Bennet.”
“I hear that Lady Catherine is improving…?” asked Elizabeth.
A shadow crossed the girl’s face. “Yes, Mother is much better, though she is not yet fully recovered.” She raised her hands to her face. “Oh… Miss Bennet, it… it was horrible, what happened to her. I thought… I thought I was going to lose her—”
“It is in the past now,” said Elizabeth gently. “It does not help to dwell on the past.”
Anne dropped her eyes and nodded. Elizabeth frowned at the downcast head, then looked around, seeking to change the subject. Her eyes fell on the books on the table. They were all volumes by various poets, she realised.
“Do you enjoy reading poetry?” she asked.
Anne glanced at the books on the table. “Oh… yes, I suppose…” She sighed. “In all honesty, it is Mrs Jenkinson who insists that I must spend my time thus. She used to be my governess, you know, before she became my companion, and she still has strong opinions about my education.” She looked at Elizabeth curiously. “Was your governess equally strict?”
Elizabeth gave a mischievous smile. “My sisters and I never had any governess.”
Anne stared in shock. “No governess? How is that possible? Were you very neglected?”
Elizabeth laughed. “Compared with some families, I believe we were; but those of us as wished to learn, never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to read, and had all the masters that were necessary.”
Anne sighed wistfully. “How wonderful it is to decide your own education and interests! I wish I could have experienced such a childhood, but my time and activities have always been strictly dictated to me. Even now…” She touched the open book before her. “I would infinitely prefer the modern poets, such as Lord Byron and Sir Walter Scott, but Mrs Jenkinson insists that the older poets such as Samuel Johnson, Thomas Gray, and even William Blake are more suitable. Though I do not mind Blake,” she admitted. “His words speak to me. But the others can be such a bore. In any case, I would much rather read novels—such as those by Mrs Radcliffe!” Her face became animated for a moment. “I have heard that they are wondrously exciting.” Then her shoulders slumped. “But Mrs Jenkinson says they are silly and vulgar.”
Elizabeth hesitated, not sure how to answer. She did not want to openly criticise Mrs Jenkinson, but she could not agree with the woman’s narrow views. At length, she said, “I have brought one of Mrs Radcliffe’s novels with me. It is rather frivolous, I own, but excessively diverting. I should be glad to lend it to you.”
“Oh… would you? I should like that above all else!” cried Anne in delight. Then she looked furtively over Elizabeth’s shoulder. “Pray, do not let Mrs Jenkinson know for she is sure to disapprove.”
Elizabeth smiled. “It shall be our secret.” She looked around again. “By the by, where is Mrs Jenkinson?”
“She is in the stillroom,” said Anne. “She was most put out on Tuesday morning when we went to the village and the apothecary did not have what she asked for.”
“Oh?” Elizabeth looked at the other girl curiously. She wondered if Anne knew the details of the poison that was believed to have been used on Lady Catherine. The apothecary would be the place to obtain syrup of colchicum. “Do you know what Mrs Jenkinson was purchasing on Tuesday?” she asked casually.
Anne shook her head. “No, for she bade me to wait outside and was most anxious that I should not overhear the conversation.” She blushed. “I… I assumed that it was of a personal nature.”
Elizabeth let the subject drop and, soon after, took her leave. But as she walked slowly back to the parsonage, she could not help feeling her suspicions of Mrs Jenkinson grow.
CHAPTER TEN
The subject of Mrs Jenkinson remained on Elizabeth’s mind all afternoon. When Charlotte lamented her need to remain at the parsonage and thus her inability to go into the village for supplies, Elizabeth quickly volunteered her services. She completed her errands for Charlotte with brisk efficiency, then made her way to the apothecary’s shop. There were several other customers in the store and she had to wait her turn, but Elizabeth did not mind for it gave her an opportunity to look around the store and gather her thoughts.
In truth, her offer to come to the village had been by impulse rather than by design, and now that she was here, she was unsure how to proceed. She could not simply ask the apothecary what Mrs Jenkinson had been purchasing on Tuesday morning—such impertinence was sure to arouse suspicions! Furthermore, she was unsure if he would recognise her from that evening at Rosings, when he had come to attend Lady Catherine.
“Yes, madam?” The apothecary looked up as the last customer exited and left Elizabeth alone in the store. “How can I help you?”
Elizabeth stepped forwards, her eyes searching hastily for a reasonable pretext. The wall behind the counter was lined with shelves, upon which jars and bottles rested, and beneath were rows upon rows of narrow drawers, each carefully labelled. A large brass scale and a mortar and pestle sat on the counter, next to some vials and bottles, and a pile of scented soaps.
“I… I am seeking something to improve my complexion,” said Elizabeth. She gave him an ingratiating smile. “Mrs Jenkinson did so recommend your expertise in dispensing the most excellent products for use. She says there are none as knowledgeable as you, sir.”
The apothecary did not comment, but Elizabeth saw his face soften slightly at the flattery. He waved his hand towards a collection of bottles at one end of the counter. “Yes, I do have several lotions which are renowned for their cosmetic properties. There is the famed Gowlands Lotion, naturally, and Olympian Dew, which is used by the ladies all over Europe. However, I personally would recommend the Milk of Roses. I have found it the most efficacious for rendering the complexion delicately fair and beautiful.”
“I shall follow your advice and purchase a bottle,” said Elizabeth. She waited a moment as he busied himself dispensing the lotion, then said, “Do you happen to have the item that Mrs Jenkinson was enquiring for on Tuesday? As I am here, I thought I would purchase it for her, should you have it in stock now.”
“Alas, no, I do not have any French cold cream yet. But I am expecting a shipment soon so I shall put a jar aside for her, as I had promised.”
Elizabeth was surprised and disappointed by his answer. She had not expected Mrs Jenkinson to have asked for something so innocuous! Unwilling to acknowledge defeat, she said, “Do you stock syrup of colchicum, perchance?”
The apothecary stiffened. He had no doubt heard the rumours about the poison believed to have been administered to Lady Catherine. “No, I do not. It is a dangerous product and I do not believe in its use. If you wish to obtain some, you will have to seek the services of the Widow Mags. However, it is not a path I would recommend.”
Elizabeth looked at him curiously. Was it her imagination or did she detect a note of fear in his voice? “And may I ask where I can find her?”
He hesitated. “She lives beyond the church. But I would advise you to stay away, madam. Stay well away.”
Elizabeth raised her eyebrows. “And why is that, pray?”
“It would do well not to ask.” He pressed his lips together, obviously not prepared to say any more.
“I see…” said Elizabeth. “Thank you.”
After paying for her purchase, she left the store and hurried back to the parsonage. She was pleased to find Charlotte alone in her rear parlour, Mr Collins having taken Maria and Sir William out for a tour of the meadows beyond the parsonage, where he kept some productive beehives. Charlotte looked up in surprise as Elizabeth arrived in the parlour, flushed and excited.
“Charlotte—do you know the Widow Mags?”
“Why, yes,” said Charlotte. “She’s an old lady who is extremely knowledgeable about remedies and herbs. She resides alone in a small cottage deep within a copse on the other side of the church. There is a short way through the graveyard to the edge of the copse and then a path through the trees to her cottage.” She eyed Elizabeth curiously. “Why do you ask?”
“I must go to see her,” said Elizabeth. “She may yet provide the answer for the mystery of the poisoner’s identity.”
“Whatever do you mean, Eliza?” asked Charlotte.
“I have just been to see the apothecary,” said Elizabeth. “He informed me that he does not sell syrup of colchicum, the substance believed to have poisoned Lady Catherine. However, he advised me that the Widow Mags would be able to provide a supply. I wish to speak to her and enquire if anyone has purchased some from her recently.”
Charlotte looked uneasy. “I am not sure that is a good notion. Mr Collins would be most disapproving. The Widow Mags is greatly shunned in the village. Indeed, her own sister has refused to acknowledge the widow, for fear of endangering her own position at Rosings Park.”
“Her sister?”
“Mrs Poole the housekeeper.”
Mrs Poole! Elizabeth thought back to her own comments to the village constable that morning. It was true that Mrs Poole was the other person who had easy access to the milk used in Lady Catherine’s tea. Could she have been the one to administer the poison? Elizabeth remembered the woman’s humiliation as Lady Catherine castigated her. Anger and resentment were good motives for wishing others harm.
She looked back at Charlotte. “The apothecary behaved strangely when I asked about the widow. He advised me not to go and see her—but would not tell me why.”
Charlotte sighed. “It is widely known in the village that the Widow Mags’s remedies are the best for curing ailments, but there are others who speak ill of her. They say…” She hesitated. “There are many who believe that she may be a witch. Even those who respect her skill, fear her greatly. People do not visit her unless under great duress. She is often the last port of call when all else has failed—but still many dread the journey through that lonely copse to her cottage.”
“Why?”
Charlotte shrugged and gave a wry smile. “It is said that ghouls and demons wander those woods and that many who venture there never return again.”
“Oh, Charlotte—surely you do not believe—”
“No, I would not normally give credence to such superstitious fancies, but I own…” Charlotte suppressed a small shiver. “I have ventured to the edge of the graveyard and looked into the copse beyond. I would be reluctant to walk there myself. There is… there is something about the place, Elizabeth… something that makes you uneasy.”
Elizabeth made an impatient noise. “The Widow Mags is my best chance of discovering a clue to the identity of the poisoner.”
“Have care, Eliza,” Charlotte begged. “I would not want you to come to harm for my sake. Those woods are lonely and isolated. There may be other dangers there besides the supernatural. Please… abandon this notion of visiting the Widow Mags. Promise me you will not go.”
Seeing how distressed Charlotte was becoming, Elizabeth reluctantly agreed and they said no more on the subject.
Several hours later, Elizabeth quietly slipped out of the back door of the parsonage, hoping that Charlotte would forgive her for breaking her promise. With Mr Collins conducting the evening sermon and the others in the household attending, it had been the perfect opportunity to visit the Widow Mags without incurring criticism, particularly from her pompous cousin. It was an opportunity Elizabeth did not want to miss. She had excused herself from the sermon, citing a headache, and waited until the others were safely in the church before making her own departure.
Now she found herself making her way across the church graveyard, hoping that she would not regret her impulsive decision. It was dusk and a light mist had fallen, shrouding the tombstones in swirls of ghostly white which gave them an eerie aspect. The distance across the graveyard seemed farther than she had anticipated and the copse beyond looked dark and forbidding. Only a weak moon was faintly visible behind a nimbus of black clouds. It gave just enough light for Elizabeth to find her way amongst the gravestones, though she had also had the foresight to bring a lamp.
An owl hooted nearby, the sound making Elizabeth jump and nearly trip over a grave marker. Recovering her composure, she chided herself for her unsteady nerves. Really, she was letting a few silly stories and idle talk prevail upon her good senses and turn her thoughts towards paranoia! She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and continued on her way, concentrating on the section of path in front of her illuminated by her lamp.
At length, she made it across the graveyard and stood at the edge of the copse. This was comprised of a thick grove of trees—a small wood, really—growing on a bank which led down to a nearby stream. She saw that there was a well worn path between the trees—no doubt the way to the Widow Mags’s cottage—and she set about following this.
The trees loomed in as she stepped into the copse, their branches protruding, thick and jointed, like grasping arms against the night sky. She could hear the sound of water gurgling in the distance—it must have been the nearby stream—and yet the sound was almost like eerie laughter in the dark gloom of the forest. Elizabeth laughed again at her own fanciful imaginings and made an effort to shrug off the feeling of unease.
It felt much colder here, amongst the trees, and she could see her breath as pale puffs of mist in the night air. She pulled her cloak tighter around her, walking as confidently as she could, but as the darkness closed in, her steps began to falter. Though the lamp gave off a steady light, this only served to make the darkness beyond seem even murkier and more menacing. She jumped at every noise, seeing moving shadows where there were none, hearing whispering voices where there should have been none.
Were those footsteps behind her? Elizabeth strained her ears. Twice she turned swiftly to look back, but each time she beheld an empty pathway winding away into the darkness.
Soon, she began to fear that she was losing her bearings; she knew not whether she went forwards or backwards, around or beyond. It felt as if she was walking in circles, blindly seeking a destination she could not reach. Were the stories about these woods true? she wondered in a sudden panic.
Then, with great relief, Elizabeth caught a glimpse of something ahead of her, between the trees. The dull gleam of a windowpane, the shape of a wooden door, the roughness of a thatched roof… it was the Widow Mags’s cottage. She hurried forwards eagerly, but when she arrived at the front porch, she was dismayed to find the cottage deserted: the door barred, the windows shuttered, and not a wisp of smoke from the chimney.
Elizabeth bit her lip in frustration. Had her trip been in vain? Unwilling to accept defeat, she found a pathway around the side of the cottage and circled it to the rear. At the back, she found a small kitchen garden, replete with vegetables and herbs. They looked well tended so she deduced that the absence of the owner must be temporary. A stone well stood nearby and the remnants of a large bonfire lay scattered in a circle beside the vegetable patch, the black ashes mixed with what looked like bits of bone. Elizabeth shivered as images of sacrificial burnings and thoughts of witchcraft and black magic intruded suddenly in her mind. Resolutely, she pushed them away, berating herself again for letting superstitious rumours prevail upon her good reason.
