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The feelings of hurt and betrayal from Darcy’s curt manner occupied Elizabeth so much that she was unable to concentrate fully during the tour of the orange grove and was relieved when Colonel Fitzwilliam finally escorted her to the rear gardens and made his farewell. Elizabeth attempted to put Darcy’s behaviour from her mind as she walked along the landscaped pathways, admiring the carefully cultivated bushes and flowers. At a juncture between two gravel paths, she came upon an elderly man with green apron and thick gardening gloves. He was kneeling beside a large rose bush, carefully applying a dark brown liquid to its prickly stems.
“Those are magnificent roses,” said Elizabeth admiringly as she drew near.
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.
