Reclamation - Chapter 36

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Hi Everyone! Thanks for all the suggestions. As always, I look forward to reading your comments. ;o)

Finally, the end is approaching! However, during the editing process, things have changed a bit, and the story has developed a few quirks that make Anne’s situation more pitiful than previously thought. To summarize the situation: Anne was raped by the lothario apothecary of Hunsford when her companion left her alone with the man instead of staying with her during multiple visits during October, November, and December of 1811. Somehow, Lady Catherine discovered Mrs. Jenkinson was not taking care of Anne as required and was fired before going to Matlock House. Also, Dr. Wheaton, the Matlock family doctor, agreed to call the fetus a tumor rather than inform the family that Anne is going to die by either miscarriage or labor. He believes that childbirth will kill Anne, and the baby will never survive. Finally, Mr. Jones prepared, distributed, and secured the legal documents. Now, if I can subdue Lady Catherine without involving a family member to kill her, get our two couples married, and write an epilogue that ties things up without a Nimbus 2000 getting involved… sigh.

Ideas anyone?

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Chapter 36

June 30, 1812 – London, Matlock House

The uneasy peace of the household was shattered not long after breakfast. A raised voice—hoarse, imperious, and all too familiar—echoed down the main staircase, sending the maids scurrying and the butler into a discreet retreat behind the nearest door.

Lady Catherine de Bourgh had awakened in full command of her indignation and escaped from her chambers.

The physician, Dr. Wheaton, had come for his morning visit and was presently cornered in the drawing room, where Lady Catherine stood before the window, one hand pressed dramatically to her breast and the other pointing accusingly at him. Her hair, though hastily arranged, trembled with every movement of her agitation.

“You expect me to believe,” she was saying, her voice rising with each syllable, “that my daughter is dying of a tumor, an invisible, convenient malady that no one but you and your instruments can perceive? Nonsense, sir! Utter fabrication! My daughter’s nerves are delicate… nothing more! I will not have you spreading tales of her approaching demise throughout my family.”

Dr. Wheaton, perspiring lightly, held his ground with the patience of long practice with wealthy recalcitrant peers of the realm. “Madam, I assure you, the diagnosis is not conjecture. It is based on what your daughter told me. Miss Anne’s condition has been confirmed by examination and by every symptom she has displayed. Her lungs are failing, probably from that medicine you forced her to take; the weakness grows daily as does the lump in her abdomen.”

“You are mistaken!” Catherine snapped. “Grievously mistaken, or deceived by others. I tell you, there has been foul play in this matter.” She turned as Lord Matlock entered, her eyes blazing. “Henry, you arrive at last! You must hear me. This man’s tale of tumors and decline is false. My daughter has been the victim of neglect, nay, of conspiracy!”

The earl’s expression was composed, though his eyes betrayed weariness. “Catherine, you are overwrought again. Dr. Wheaton is a man of skill and honor. You would do well to hear him with civility.”

“Civility!” she cried, advancing a step. “Was it civil to let my poor child languish under the influence of strangers? Do you know, Henry, that Mrs. Jenkinson, the woman I trusted for over twenty years, was absent from Anne’s chamber on at least three separate occasions while that new apothecary was in the house? Three! I dismissed her at once when I discovered the neglect, for who can tell what poison or terror might have been introduced in those moments?”

Lord Matlock’s brow furrowed. “You dismissed Mrs. Jenkinson?”

“I did,” she said triumphantly. “I took charge of my daughter’s care myself, for I alone could be trusted. I saw her terror with my own eyes, the way she shrank away when the new apothecary entered her room, her voice trembling, her hands cold as ice. Tell me, Henry, does that sound like illness to you? Or fear?”

Dr. Wheaton drew himself up, answering with controlled dignity. “Lady Catherine, I am a physician who graduated from medical school, not a country bumkin who inherited an apothecary shop and dared to practice medicine without any formal training. Your daughter was not fearful of me. She was in pain and too weak to speak much, but she never showed alarm at my presence. Her reluctance to converse may have been caused by your own presence and agitation, not mine.”

“How dare you!” she hissed. “You accuse me of harming my own child?”

“Of exhausting her, perhaps,” the doctor said quietly. “Lady Anne requires calm, not storms.”

For a moment, there was silence. Catherine’s breath came short and uneven, her face mottled with fury and disbelief. Then she turned to her brother once more, her voice trembling not with anger alone but with something near desperation.

“You must see the truth, Henry. They have contrived this illness to remove Anne from me—to take her fortune, her home, everything that is rightfully hers. And you have aided them, all of you! Darcy, your son, even your wife. All of them are conspiring to make me appear mad while my poor girl wastes away in secret!”

Lord Matlock took a long, steadying breath before replying. “Catherine, you must stop this. No one has wronged you. Anne is indeed gravely ill, and no amount of denial will restore her health. You will not accuse my household or my physicians again. You will rest, or you will be removed to another residence where you may.”

The room fell still except for the faint ticking of the mantel clock. Catherine’s lips parted in outrage, but for once no words emerged. Her gaze darted wildly between her brother and the doctor.

“Removed?” she whispered. “From my own family?”

“From my house,” Lord Matlock corrected, his tone firm but not unkind. “For Anne’s sake and your own.”

For an instant, she seemed to waver, torn between pride and the tremor of truth that had pierced her delusion. Then she straightened to her full height.

“You will regret this insolence, Henry,” she said coldly. “You and your doctor both. I will have the truth of this matter, even if I must summon more medical specialists and the magistrate to find it.”

With that, she swept past them, skirts rustling like a storm wind, and disappeared up the staircase toward her chamber, leaving a stunned silence in her wake.

Dr. Wheaton exhaled slowly. “I fear, my lord, that her reason falters again. However, she failed to protect her daughter soon enough from that apothecary. I am going to break patient confidentiality and inform you that the tumor is, in fact, a fetus. It continues to grow despite the harsh tincture the apothecary prescribed in an effort to cover up his crimes. Miss Anne did not wish her mother to know that the fool raped her. When she began exhibiting signs of pregnancy, she experienced morning sickness, excessive exhaustion, emotional upsets, fainting spells, and uncontrollable weeping. He prescribed a tincture that should have caused a miscarriage. It failed to do that, but it did weaken her lungs and other internal organs, making it almost impossible for her to survive birthing an infant. The constant abdominal pain she is currently experiencing is the fetus kicking. Apparently, it calms down and stops moving when music is played.”

Stunned, Lord Matlock vigorously rubbed his temples. “Yes. But Catherine will not stop until she has made all of us suffer for this mess.”

He looked toward the ceiling, where the echo of her footsteps had faded. “Heaven help us,” he murmured. “If Catherine finds out the truth, I begin to think Anne’s peace will never come in this life. Only when her mother’s mind has entirely spent itself and she can be removed from here will the girl ever find respite.”

Dr. Wheaton excused himself soon after, promising to return before evening with his strongest nurse and additional medicines to ease Anne’s pain. When the sound of the front door closing died away, Lord Matlock stood motionless before the hearth, one hand braced on the mantel as though to steady himself against the full horror of what he had learned.

Moments later, the door opened quietly, and Lady Matlock entered, her expression full of concern. Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam followed at once, having been drawn from the library by the earlier commotion. The earl motioned for the door to be closed, then turned to face them all.

“She has been here,” Lady Matlock said quietly, her voice trembling despite her composure. “Half the household heard her shouting before she returned upstairs. I thought it best that we speak privately before anyone else learns what has passed.”

Her husband nodded grimly. “Yes. You shall hear it now, for it touches us all.”

He waited until the butler had discreetly withdrawn and the latch clicked into place before he spoke again.

“Catherine confronted Dr. Wheaton in the drawing room. She accused him— and us—of conspiring to invent Anne’s illness. Her delusions grow more violent by the hour. But that is not the worst of it.” He paused, drawing a weary breath. “Dr. Wheaton has broken his oath of confidence to tell me the truth that Anne herself concealed.”

Lady Matlock drew in a sharp breath. “The truth?”

The earl looked to Darcy and Richard, his voice low and deliberate. “Anne is not dying of a tumor. The mass that grows within her is—” He faltered a moment, forcing the words through clenched emotion. “It is a fetus.”

The silence that followed was absolute. Darcy went pale, his hand tightening around the back of a chair. Richard stared as though he had not heard aright.

“A baby?” Lady Matlock whispered. “Good Lord… Anne?”

“Yes,” the earl said hoarsely. “Wheaton believes the apothecary at Rosings—some wretched, untrained man—violated her. He then prescribed a tincture meant to conceal his crime by ending the pregnancy. It failed, but it poisoned her all the same. Her lungs and strength are nearly destroyed.”

Lady Matlock pressed a hand to her mouth, her eyes filling. “That poor girl… and she bore the violation alone.”

Richard’s jaw tightened. “Did Wheaton name the man?”

“He does not know his full name,” the earl replied, “but he means to obtain it from the parish records. The villain will not escape justice. However, our greater concern is Anne herself. We must find a way to preserve her peace.”

Darcy’s voice came low and controlled, though his face was drawn. “Does Catherine know any part of this?”

“None,” Lord Matlock said. “And she must not. If she ever suspects the truth, she will turn her wrath on everyone within reach. Anne’s remaining days would become intolerable.”

Lady Matlock moved closer, her composure returning with purpose. “Then we must agree upon a single course. Catherine must not be allowed near her daughter without one of us present. And her freedom within the house must be restrained. I will speak to Mrs. Hartwell and the nurse—she shall not pass the upper corridor without my permission.”

The earl nodded heavily. “Do so. And when Dr. Wheaton returns this evening, I will have him confirm his measures for Anne’s comfort. She must be spared every agitation.”

Richard’s brow furrowed. “And what of Catherine herself? She cannot be reasoned with. She has already dismissed Mrs. Jenkinson; she distrusts the servants and would undo your authority if she could.”

“Catherine must be watched,” Lady Matlock replied firmly. “Quietly, but watched. I will have two of your soldiers, Richard, stationed near her apartments in plain livery. She will think them ordinary footmen.”

Richard inclined his head. “They’ll obey you. She won’t move a step without their notice.”

Darcy, who had remained silent until now, spoke with quiet conviction. “And what of Anne’s child? Will she ever be told?”

Lord Matlock’s expression was pained. “No. She cannot survive that knowledge. It would finish her before her body does. Wheaton believes she has guessed the truth but chooses silence. Let her keep that peace while she can.”

Darcy bowed his head. “Then we must see that her final days are as serene as possible.”

Lady Matlock’s voice softened. “She has asked that the weddings proceed quickly—she wishes to witness happiness before she goes. We must not fail her in that.”

Lord Matlock nodded gravely. “I have already spoken to Mr. Gardiner by letter. The licenses will be prepared, and the ceremony will be held here as Anne wished. Afterward, I mean to send Catherine to Bath with an attendant and a physician. It will be presented as a rest cure.”

Richard’s mouth tightened. “And if she refuses?”

“Then I shall make it an order,” said the earl with quiet authority. “I will not have her destroy what little peace remains to this house.”

A silence followed, heavy but resolute. At last, Lady Matlock rose, her eyes still glistening. “Then it is settled. We will protect Anne’s secret, guard her from further distress, and ensure that her last wish is honored.”

Darcy stood beside his aunt, bowing slightly. “She deserves no less—from any of us.”

Richard nodded in agreement. “And the man who did this—he will be found.”

The earl placed a weary hand on his nephew’s shoulder. “He will, Richard. But justice will wait until Anne is beyond the reach of pain. For now, our duty is mercy.”

Lady Matlock turned toward the door, her composure regained, though her heart was breaking. “Then we shall begin at once. There must be order restored in this house before the hour is out.”

As the others followed her into the corridor, Lord Matlock lingered a moment longer before the empty grate. His reflection shimmered faintly in the glass above the mantel, an old man bowed beneath the weight of secrets too cruel to speak.

When he finally turned away, it was with the grave steadiness of one who knows that silence itself is the only act of love left to him.