Posted on Tuesday, 31 October 2006
London, January 1814
What many people do not realise about poisons is that each and every poison is unique. Not even two bottles of the same poison are really the same. Each one will have its own personal history, its significance to its maker, the same way as every single human being is unique. Which is why I think that if you poison someone, you should be very careful picking the right poison. I think that everyone has the right to be poisoned with the one essence that must truly reflects his character. If I did not take all considerations about someone's personality into account, I could as well slaughter them with a knife, the vulgarity would be the same. I shall therefore take an ample choice of potions with me when I go to Surrey next week, and can only hope the local apothecary will be as helpful as my Mr. Markham here.
I would be the last to deny that October can be a very cold and stormy month, but this Friday in October 1881 is particularly uncomfortable - or does it only feel like that to me because I have spent hours upon hours reading all the material I could find about what had happened in Highbury, Surrey, in 1814? I am used to death, even to ugly death - having served in Her Majesty's army in India for more than ten years - but the Highbury murders shock even me. The murderer has never been caught, and the thought that he may still be somewhere out there, killing more people, sometimes frightens me, though I know that in all rationality, he cannot be alive anymore. The murders occurred in the same year that my father was born, and he is now a proud grandfather himself. My grandmother, who was the same age as many of the younger victims at that time, is dead almost ten years. When the poor people in Highbury died, she was a young wife of two-and-twenty (not that she had been anywhere near Highbury at that time. I am using this example merely to illustrate how much time has passed). Why should I fear the murderer might still be alive? But I cannot help it, I feel a shudder running down my back as I get out of the train in Highbury and look for a coach that will bring me to Donwell Abbey. I am to meet one of the last witnesses - maybe the last, for I have not been able to find out if Anna Weston is still alive - of the Highbury murders.
But I realise now, dear reader, that I did not introduce myself. My own personal history is not very exciting, but I think I owe you at least a name. You have the - dubious, as my sister Elizabeth would say - honour of meeting Alexander F. Darcy, retired colonel of her majesty's army, and younger son of Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley in Derbyshire. (Spare me the humiliation of asking what the F. in my name means, be so kind. It was something that my grandfather insisted on when I was born. Suffice it for you to know that I was named after my father, grandfather and great-grandfather, and that my older brother, F. Edward Darcy, is even worse off. No one in my family has a hand at naming children, otherwise we would have more variety in our girls' names than Elizabeth, Georgiana and Jane, and none of us would bear the stain of the F.)
I was wounded while serving in India, with the result that I know have a limp that many of the ladies find irresistible, especially in combination with the scar in my chin, but that I personally find very uncomfortable, seeing that I can barely move without the help of a most ridiculous walking-stick. (Sending younger sons to the army was also a tradition that my grandfather founded, telling everybody that his cousin was very content with his situation. I do not doubt it, but I would have been very happy, had I been allowed to choose for myself, for I would have chosen the law as my profession. Unfortunately, my grandfather was very much against young men studying the law, which is why I ended up in the army.) I am now thirty-four, and while that is quite young, I feel much too old to go to University and study the law together with boys half my age. Her Majesty pays me a pension that allows me to rent a little rat-hole in one of the more expensive slums in London, but fortunately, a little inheritance from an uncle allows me a little more comfortable life. As my grandmother always taught me, my siblings and our cousins that nothing is worse than doing nothing at all (I particularly recall one Christmas holiday in 1859, when my grandmother recommended cleaning all of Pemberley's 137 coats of armour as a course against our boredom. Never after that has any of my siblings or cousins dared to question the necessity of talking a walk with your grandmother.), I have begun to study criminal cases. The one that fascinates me the most is the case of the Highbury murders, and I am determined to find out the truth.
Lady Knightley was delighted to hear from me and to have a chance to talk about all that happened. 'I flatter myself that I know a little more about the affair than other people,' she wrote in her letter. I do not deny that I am a little bit excited to meet her. She must be almost ninety, but her hand-writing is that of a much younger woman, and her letter does not have one single complaint about her health. She writes about her daily walks, the books she has read, the local gossip, and her grandchildren. I have to think of my own grandmother, who also tried to deny her old age until shortly before her 80th birthday, until the day of her accident in the sculpture gallery, to be more precise. (And even after that, she insisted that one of her grandchildren wheel her about the park in her wheel-chair - after we had visited the sculpture gallery, for she told us that since the day of her arrival at Pemberley as a young bride, she has visited the sculpture gallery every morning, and tried in vain to like the sculptures, and she would not be hindered in doing so by a stupid wheel-chair.
The sculpture gallery, by the bye, was a constant source of discussion for my grandparents, for my grandfather insisted the sculptures were family heirlooms and should not be moved, while my grandmother found them ugly and pretentious. She refused to have a sculpture taken of her and instead had portraits painted of her and her children.) I think I have met Lady Knightley once or twice in my early childhood, but I do not really remember. Her husband was a politician, just like my grandfather, and I think she must have visited us at Pemberley, shortly after my parents were married (but then, seeing that I am the youngest, almost ten years younger than my brother, it could have well been before my birth.)
Highbury, February 1814
I did not think everything should be so very easy. I have already met most of the people here, and I think everything will work exceedingly well. The local parson, I am told, is not here at the moment, but will return shortly. The apothecary is a man named Mr. Perry, and I find him rather naïve. He believed my stories about the little beauty tricks I learned from the London belles at once and sold me several ounces of the diverse herbs I needed, so that I am now well-prepared, should the need arise, for I have heard from Frank that he will arrive shortly.
I must make it clear now that I do not enjoy poisoning people particularly, just like I do not enjoy practising the piano or making my hair. It is the result I am interested in, and if the result I wish requires somewhat drastic measures, I am willing to take them, just like I am willing to put my hair on curlers every evening.
Nevertheless, I believe that there is a task that must be done, there is no need not to do it properly, which is why I think that all those who I may have to poison deserve that I use the appropriate poison - which, thanks to Mr. Perry, I shall be able to.
I cannot help but like Lady Knightley the moment I see her. Her hair is white, her figure is a little bent, but her hazel eyes still tell something of youth, of enthusiasm, of spontaneity. She is wearing a blue dress, made of silk, and she looks much younger than Her Majesty, who must be almost thirty years her junior. We are sitting in a cosy parlour in Donwell Abbey, and I feel instantly reminded of my grandmother's room. On the walls, there are photographs of her grand-children, slightly fainted watercolours, probably from her daughter, a picture of herself and her husband together with Her Majesty, and many other things that no doubt remind her of all she has seen in life.
'Lady Knightley, I hope you will forgive me for intruding into your privacy,' I say when I have sat down on a sofa opposite her armchair.
'You do not intrude, Mr. Darcy, not at all,' she assures me. 'Donwell Abbey is much too quiet ever since the children went away, and I scarcely have visitors now.' She has three children, I remember. George, the eldest, is now sixty-five, and has followed his father's footsteps and become a politician; there are rumours he will, like his father, be knighted one day. His three daughters are all married, his son married only last month. During the parliamentary sessions, George is in London with Mrs. Knightley, and his mother remains alone in Surrey. Her daughter Anna must be about sixty, I calculate; she is married to a Secretary of State and will also live in London, unless she is visiting her son on his father's estate in the North or her daughter, who is married to a gentleman in the neighbourhood of it. Lady Knightley's younger son, John, is in his late fifties; he studied the law and is now a judge in Old Bailey. John Knightley's daughters recently married, his son has just finished his studies in Cambridge. She must feel very lonely, being the last one to live in Donwell Abbey, when it was once so full of laughter and happy voices.
'Do not look too sorry for me, Mr. Darcy,' Lady Knightley says, 'they may have all left the house, but they visit me often and write letters even more often, and I know that one day, at least George will return. I have a large and caring family, and I cannot complain.' She sighs. 'I do miss my husband, of course, but we always knew I should outlive him. He was sixteen years my senior, you know. I only did not know I should outlive him by almost thirty years now.'
She points at a picture on the wall that shows her and her husband. 'This picture was taken two months before his death. Mr. Knightley and I - Sir George and I, I should say, but you must know I always called him Mr. Knightley - had gone to London for John's wedding, and had our picture taken. I am very glad I persuaded him to have it done.'
She sighs again. 'No, do not pity me. I have been very happy with him, and he with me, I flatter myself. I am very grateful for the thirty-eight years I was married to him, especially seeing that I should have almost lost him during the time of - you know what I mean.'
Of course I know what she means. It is because of this that I have come here. During the time that the "Potion-master of Highbury", as the newspapers dubbed him, was killing people, everyone had been in danger, and Sir George - Mr. Knightley then - had almost died from a poisoned apple, and only the devoted care of his future wife had brought him back to life.
He was not the first victim, though. In fact, with the first victim, no one had suspected he was a victim of a murderer in the beginning. Only when the number of unnatural deaths in Highbury had dramatically increased, did the coroner into deaths earlier the same year. It was then found out - through deduction only - that Edwin Stevens had been the Potion-master's first victim. Nobody knew why he had been chosen - someone later had prompted the theory that the murderer wanted to test his poison on him, but I somehow doubt it - but one day in March, he had been found dead in an alleyway.
Highbury, April 1814
Something rather unexpected happened yesterday, and it forced me to act quickly, and without preparations, which is something I do not like at all. I prefer planning my acts, carefully assembling all that I will need, and pondering all the implications of what I am going to do. Yesterday, however, I was denied that possibility, and I may therefore have acted more vulgarly than I am wont to. Frank and I had taken a little stroll through the lanes around Abbey Mill Farm when we were discovered by one of Mr. Martin's farm hands. I hate to admit it - because I like being in control of the situation - but the precise situation the man found us in was not one to allow any other conclusion but the one to which the man ultimately came, as was visible from his face. Frank, luckily, was too distracted to realise that we had been discovered, so I managed to send him away, assuring him that I would talk to the man to find out how much he had seen. I knew of course that I could take no chances. Fortunately, I had my little bottle for cases of emergency in my purse. The man was very astonished when I offered him some liquor, but he accepted nevertheless. I dare say he did not really understand what was happening to him. Still, I am not satisfied with myself. Hemlock. It is so clichéd. But what was I to do?
I wonder what Lady Knightley knows about it. 'Do you remember the death of Edwin Stevens?'
Lady Knightley has to think for a moment or two. 'He was one of the Martin's farm hands, was he not? I think I do remember. It was earlier in the year, before - before it all began. You know what I mean.'
'Do you remember, were people frightened by his death? Did you find it unusual at all?'
'No, I do not think so. At least I did not. We all assumed it to be a natural death, that something had not been alright with his heart, you know. I think I do remember that Mr. Knightley visited us and told us that one of the Martin's farm hands had had a heart attack in a small lane. We felt of course sorry for his wife, and his children, but we were not frightened. I think I visited his family once, you know, charity visit. But we were not afraid, definitely not.'
I believe her. She looks not as if she was easily scared. (In that way, she reminds me much of my grandmother, who would never tolerate any nonsense about being afraid of ghosts. 'If you cannot sleep after reading a ghost story, do not read it,' she would say. 'It is easy enough to understand. Oh, tush! Mr. Darcy,' she would add when my grandfather would say something about having liked ghost stories as a child, too. 'Every child reads ghost stories, I know that. I just say Alexander should not read them before going to bed if they prevent him from sleeping.' And then they would start a discussion about whether or not it was advisable for a child to read ghost stories before sleeping and I and my book would be forgotten, and I could sneak upstairs with my book and spend half the night reading ghost stories. But I digress.)
Highbury, April 1814
I am still somehow shocked by what happened with the farm-hand. Such a blunder must not happen again. I must be prepared should such a situation ever arise again. I therefore had to visit Mr. Perry again in order to get new supplies, and now I have made sure that I have a little bottle of each of the most common poisons in my purse. It would never do to poison everyone with hemlock. I could never forgive myself such a cliché.
'I do not exaggerate,' Lady Knightley assures me. 'You know, Mr. Knightley was of the opinion that it was a natural death, and of course we followed his example. I always regarded Mr. Knightley as the cleverest person in all Highbury - although he would never admit it. I was sure, that if there was anything peculiar about the death of this farm-hand, Mr. Knightley would spot it. He always spotted things no one else paid attention to. He was quite an extraordinary man, very clever, and devoted to what he felt was right. I was sure he would make a good politician, but you cannot know how much persuasion it took me to convince him to stand up for election.' She smiles in reminiscence. 'And in the end, how much he liked it! And how much he did for his country! He did not want to accept the knighthood at first, but I persuaded him to accept his queen's gratitude. Although I of course loved him regardless whether he was Mr. Knightley or Sir George, and I told him that, too.' She smiles in reminiscence. 'He was truly the best husband one could wish for, and the only one I could ever imagine for myself. I have known him my whole life, and I always trusted him completely - more than myself, to tell you the truth. So when he told me that the farmhand's death was a natural one, I believed him.' She sighs. 'And it was perhaps the only time that he was mistaken, but of course we all knew of that only months later. That time, and of course the death of Betty Munroe.'
I nod. I know of Betty Munroe's death, and it would have been my next question. Betty Munroe was an old woman, the widowed mother of one of the maids at Donwell Abbey. She herself had been the cook at the Abbey until her rheumatism had not allowed her to work anymore. She had been a favourite among many of the parish's children because of her story-telling abilities, and many of the finer ladies of Highbury had visited her regularly to bring her some soup or apple-tart (for which she had a preference). When she was discovered dead in front of her hearth one morning, it had of course been a shock, but people had assumed that her heart had finally been to weak for her.
Highbury, May1814
I had to poison someone else. Luckily, I was prepared this time, for my purse has been well-stocked ever since the blunder last month. I was out visiting the poor yesterday, and decided to visit Betty Munroe, too. Luckily I did, for I learnt that she had found out my secret. Not that she knew it was mine, though. She told me she had seen Frank meeting a woman in an alleyway, and even speculated it was Miss Woodhouse. I knew that as soon as people began speculating about Frank too much, I would be found out. I could not risk Betty Munroe telling anybody else what she saw, and I can only hope she did not tell anyone else before. Most conveniently, I had just the right bottle of atropine with me; Old Betty was glad when I offered to make her tea, and it did not take too long; I sat with her the whole time.
'Yes, poor Betty,' Lady Knightley says. 'But you know, she was old, so we thought it was all natural. We felt sorry for her and her family, but we were not afraid. And then, only two weeks later, there was the ball - the first ball Highbury had seen for decades, mind you - and I dare say most people forgot about poor Betty. And nobody, of course, connected her death to that of Terence Johnson. We all assumed that something had been wrong with the mushrooms he had had. It was Mrs. Elton who had suggested that we have mushroom tartlets at the ball, but I dare say no one blamed her for what happened. She could of course not foresee that the poor man would happen to have the one tartlet with the poisonous mushrooms.' After a while, she adds, 'though I dare say that apart from Mrs. Elton, no one had thought of having mushroom tartlets in May, and if she had not insisted that she had seen it done with dried mushrooms in Maple Grove, we would not have had them.'
She is of course right, Mrs. Elton is not to be blamed for what happened to the footman at the Crown. Nobody of course knows exactly what happened, but it appears that Mr. Johnson, during the time of the ball at the Crown, stepped into a sort of linen closet nearby the ballroom in order to eat a mushroom tartlet which he appeared to have nicked from the buffet and died subsequently from poisoning. When his body was discovered the morning after the ball, it was assumed that he had been the unlucky victim of poisonous mushrooms, but later it was deducted that he must have been a victim of the potion-master. My assumption is that he saw the potion-master doing something and that he had to die as a consequence. But of course I cannot prove it. (Not that proof is everything. When, at Pemberley, jelly biscuits had been stolen, my grandmother would find the culprit, no matter how scarce the evidence was. She said she knew it by looking into our faces. Not counting, of course, the occasions when my grandfather had been the offender. I remember the afternoon one December when he received a worse telling-off than any of us for 'setting a bad example' and 'actually tempting the children to steal the biscuits'. Still, he was not sent to help the house-maids dust the busts in the sculpture gallery, contrary to us. He received an invitation to tea and jelly biscuits in my grandmother's sitting-room.)
Highbury, May 1814
I must say I was quite disappointed by what should have been the greatest event in the History of Highbury. I do not mean to complain about the fact that I could not dance with my one true love for the whole evening; I knew before I should not be able to. No, what annoyed me was the total lack of propriety displayed by the servants. Frank and I had retired into a small closet for a minute or two, and what should happen but that a servant comes in, without even knocking, or, as he saw that the closet was obviously occupied, leaving us in peace. No, the fool could do nothing else but gape at us open-mouthed. Luckily, just as I had rearranged my skirts, Frank heard his father calling for him and he left in a hurry; he did not see me handing the stupid oaf a mushroom tartlet that I had prepared earlier should need arise. I am not sorry that the man had to die, it was his own fault. Had he shown more common sense, he might still be alive. No, quite the opposite, I am rather proud of how skillfully I handled the whole situation, and I am happy that the mushrooms did indeed fit the oaf very well - not that he deserved such thoughtfulness.
But I fear that I am digressing again.
'You know, it did strike us as strange that poor Mr. Johnson should die', Lady Knightley says, 'but not, you know, dangerous. We thought that Fate was maybe playing one of her tricks on Highbury, but not that a murderer was about to try and kill us all.' She sighs. 'Alas, we were sadly deceived. You must know, Mr. Darcy, that although Mr. Knightley and myself did survive - though more by luck than by anything we did - we both lost many people who were very dear to us. More than sixty years have passed, and still, I mourn for them, and I do know that Mr. Knightley - Sir George, I should say - did not forget them either. You know, even today, there are mornings when I wake up fearing that someone dear to me - or even I myself - could be killed, until I remind myself that these times are long gone.'
Highbury, June 1814
I must teach myself patience. It will not do to start with the plan too early. I must act as I planned before, or all will end in chaos. Still, today I felt it would be very difficult to wait so much longer. Not only do I have to stay here at least until August, but also does the dreadful Mrs. E. try and find me some place as a governess. I fear I am slowly but surely running out of excuses why I cannot accept them, and the woman is, I must confess, annoying me very much. I felt severely tempted to slip some arsenic into her lemonade today, but luckily, in the very moment I was about to do it, Miss Woodhouse happened have one of her silly fits of laughter over some stupid thing Frank said. Honestly, how he can bear the girl's company, I do not understand. She is the most insane creature Highbury can boast of, and that does say something. Why does Frank not see that? Has he fallen victim to her dubious charms, just like Mr. Knightley has?
I miss London. The country depresses me, both the confined circle of silly people and the lack of actions. We went to Box Hill today, and they act like it was the most exciting thing that had ever happened to them in their whole life. Well, probably it is. I must constantly remind myself not to appear as annoyed and displeased as I am, but it gets more difficult every day. I am even angry with Frank, which I was never before. I only wish I could start soon, but the time has not yet come. Frank assures me, though, that his aunt drinks the apple-juice I gave him every day, so it cannot take much longer. If only Frank knew what he was feeding his aunt!
'And then Mrs. Churchill died', I say tentatively. I do not know how Lady Knightley will react, but she is completely calm.
'And that was one death no one did expect,' she says. 'We had never believed she was as ill as Frank Churchill told us, but it turns out we were wrong yet again.' She smiles. 'Do not think me very hard-hearted, Mr. Darcy, but I did not feel very sorry for her. She had been, as far as we knew, a very selfish and cruel woman. I felt sorry for her husband, about whom I had heard nothing but good, but I did not feel sorry for her. I felt relieved, to tell the truth, because of Frank Churchill, who had to suffer so much from her moods!'
Highbury, July 1814
It has happened, at least; Mrs. Churchill has died, but I cannot feel happy. I am still angry with Frank, and I do not want to see him. I never thought he could care so little about me. I feel tempted to forget the whole plan and simply strangle Frank, but I tell myself I must not; now that Mrs. Churchill has died, everything must turn out as I planned it. Still, I cannot rejoice that everything went so well. I even wonder whether agreeing to a secret engagement was the right thing to do. It seemed perfect when Frank suggested it, but now I have serious doubts. I do not even know whether Frank still feels the same; nay, whether he ever loved me, or whether it was only boredom that induced him to enter into the engagement. The plan was meant to unite me with my one true love, but now I am farther from him than before, I fear. What has happened to me? Why do I stay in my room all day, pretending I have a headache, when I should be celebrating my success?
'In hindsight, of course, I know that Mrs. Churchill's death was were it all really started,' Lady Knightley says, 'although I do not really know how the murderer - whoever it was - managed to poison her. But I think it is too much of a coincidence that she died so shortly before Mr. Perry, and the Eltons, and ...'
For the first time this day, Lady Knightley does not seem to be master of her emotions. A tear trickles down her cheek.
'I thought I should never be as happy as I was that July, when the month began, but instead, it turned out to be probably the worst month of my life. When the month began, I was a hopeful bride-to-be, when it ended, I had lost almost everyone dear to me.' She dabs her eyes with a handkerchief. 'You will forgive an old woman her sentimentalities, will you not, Mr. Darcy?'
All I can do is smile at her reassuringly; I am at a loss, not knowing what to say. I feel so sorry for Lady Knightley. Truly, more than sixty years have passed, but she lost almost everyone she loved, at a time that should have been the happiest time in her life. In her eyes, I can still see something of the young bride that she must have been in July 1814, but her figure, bent in her armchair, suddenly looks old. To have lost everyone dear to oneself - almost all the family one had - in the course of less than one month, and to live for more than sixty years afterwards with the memories of them is not an easy fate, however generous life may have been with Lady Knightley afterwards. (Although I do know, of course, that her married life was very happy, and that she is now a much beloved mother and grandmother, and a very respected matron of Highbury - still, I cannot help but compare her to my grandmother, whose married life was equally happy (that is, if one does not take the many quarrels with my grandfather about all and nothing too seriously, which I am sure neither she nor he did), but who never had to face such a massive loss in her youth. (I have heard strange tales about great-aunt Lydia (Lady Eastbrook, I should say), though, but I assume they were only meant to frighten my sisters into behaving well.))
Highbury, August 1814
When I wrote into my diary the last time, how little did I realise how much would happen in the course of one short month. And about what stupid stuff did I worry last month!
How could I ever doubt Frank's feelings? He had not forgotten me, he had simply mislaid my letter; not the first blunder he committed, I must say.
After Frank and I were reconciled, it was finally time to start with my plan, especially as I had heard Miss Woodhouse and Mr. Knightley had finally become engaged. (I do wonder why it took her so long to trap him. Had I used her arts and allurements, I should have secured him by January.)
I did not want to start with Mr. Perry, of course, he had, after all, nothing to do with the plan, but it could not be helped. He had become increasingly annoying, always asking why I needed all these ingredients, and I could not risk him blabber about what he sold me to everybody. I used hemlock, which is of course clichéd, but then, was not Mr. Perry a cliché? Just your ordinary apothecary, not quite a member of the gentry yet, but aspiring to be one, never having an opinion of his own, but always nodding at what Mr. Woodhouse said - how could I not use hemlock?
It was perhaps not necessary to poison the Eltons as well, but I could not resist the temptation - and why should I not? After all the torment I have had to suffer from their hands, I dare say it was my good right to act as I did. Although strychnine may have been a bit over the top, I do admit it.
I felt really sorry about Mr. and Mrs. Weston. In the short time of my engagement to Frank, they had become almost like parents to me. But I had to remind myself it was all for the sake of the plan, and I remained firm. I used morphine, which is considered to be very painless, and I hope they simply thought they were falling asleep after tea for I did not wish them to be unhappy.
I do not like to repeat myself, but what choice did I have? I did not want to hurt my Aunt and my Grandmother either, but it had to be done, so I poured the rest of the morphine into their tea. I stayed with them until all was over, and it was very peaceful, for which I am grateful.
Mr. Woodhouse turned out more difficult than I had anticipated, but I managed to sneak into the kitchen one evening when Serle was preparing his gruel. I am sure he would have appreciated to know that he was poisoned from the same bottle as Mr. Perry was, but I do not think he noticed anything at all.
Frank was even more difficult because, during the time of our engagement, I had come to like him quite a lot, in spite of our stupid quarrel and his many blunders. But I told myself that if I wanted to be with my one true love one day, it had to be done, especially after all that I had done before - for all their deaths would have been quite useless had I not killed Frank, and I could not have done that to any of them - apart from the Eltons, perhaps, who deserved to die without any reason.
I had deliberately waited before I came to Emma Woodhouse. After having waited for so long, I wanted to anticipate this happy, happy moment as long as I could. She was of course struck with grief of all the parental figures she had ever known, and she was very grateful for my visit, reminding me that we shared the same fate, having lost so many. I was very sympathetic and kind towards her because I knew it should not be long before all was over. And it was as wonderful an experience as I had thought. She had horrible cramps and it took her almost half an hour until she died at last. To see my tormentor of so many years suffer at my hand, finally, filled me with a happiness I had rarely ever known before. I was a little bit sad to see her go in the end; she was a worthy opponent and the only of my victims who realised they had fallen prey to the potion-mistress. (The press have called me potion-master, but I think potion-mistress is much more adequate.)
And now, I am free! Free at last! Free to do what I always wanted to do! And at last, I can be united with the one man I really love; I know my one true love is waiting for me. He visited me yesterday to enquire how I felt, and he pointed out the similarity in our situations - 'have we not both lost the love of our lives?' he asked me. If only he knew! If only he realised his feelings! I know that it is not only sympathy he feels for me, I know he does not only admire me for my accomplishments, and my fortitude in this crisis, but does he know already? I fear it will take him some time.
I have sent the poisoned apple to Donwell this morning. The dose is not lethal, of that I made sure, but he will feel he is about to die, and who will nurse him back to life, if not I?
I dare say that before the month is over, he will have quite forgotten Miss Woodhouse. I do think I shall be married before the year is over, and not too many years shall pass before I shall be what I always wanted to be: Lady Knightley of Donwell Abbey.
I have the feeling that my life is going to start tomorrow.
'I am sorry, Lady Knightley,' I say. 'I did not realise this would be such a painful topic for you. I apologise for asking you these questions. It was a stupid idea of mine to wake up sleeping dogs, and the person who did all that to you probably died many years ago anyway.'
'No, no, it is quite alright,' she says and dries her eyes, 'talking about it helps very much, even after so much time has passed, and you have been a very attentive listener, Mr. Darcy. Would you like some tea?'