They began walking, and Anne adjusted her pace to match his longer stride. Elizabeth’s body managed it easily, her legs strong enough to keep up without struggle. The simple pleasure of walking beside someone, of matching their rhythm, of moving together through the spring morning, was so novel that Anne had to suppress a smile.
“The fresh air is all I truly needed,” she told him warmly, glancing up at his face. Even in her new body, taller than her old one, Anne had to look up to meet Darcy’s eyes. He was remarkably tall, and standing this close, she could see details she had never noticed from across drawing rooms. A small scar near his left temple, nearly invisible. The way his dark hair curled slightly at the temples despite being carefully brushed. The exact shade of his eyes, which were not simply brown but contained flecks of amber and green when the light caught them.
She smiled at him, putting warmth into the expression. “And your company, of course. It is a pleasure to have someone to walk with.”
Darcy’s expression flickered with something Anne could not quite identify. Surprise, certainly. Pleasure, definitely. But also confusion, a slight furrowing of his brow that suggested he found something unexpected in her response. He recovered quickly, his features smoothing, but Anne had seen the reaction.
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice carrying that careful formality he always employed.
They walked on in silence for a few moments, the only sounds their footsteps and birdsong in the hedgerows. Anne should say something, should fill the silence with the sort of lively conversation Elizabeth would provide. But what wouldElizabeth say? Anne knew the girl’s circumstances, her family, her situation. She had gathered information carefully during Elizabeth’s visits to Rosings, and by asking strategic questions of Charlotte Collins. But knowing facts was different from understanding how Elizabeth thought, how she spoke, what topics she favoured.
The silly chit. How could Elizabeth Bennet, with her adequate face and decent figure and quick wit, have failed to recognise what Darcy felt for her? He could barely take his eyes from her when they were in the same room. He sought her out at every opportunity, inventing excuses to walk where she walked, to sit near her. He had even endured Lady Catherine’s tedious evening gatherings without complaint simply because Elizabeth would be present.
Anne had watched it all from her position by the fireplace, wrapped in shawls despite the warmth, largely ignored by everyone except Mrs. Jenkinson. She had observed Darcy’s careful attention to Elizabeth’s every word, the way he leaned toward her when she spoke, as though afraid of missing a syllable. She had seen him struggle to engage Elizabeth in conversation, offering opinions he thought might interest her, asking questions designed to draw her out.
And Elizabeth had responded with cool civility at best, with barely concealed disdain at worst. Anne had listened to her speak to Colonel Fitzwilliam about Darcy, her tone making clear she found him proud and disagreeable. The fool. To have Darcy’s regard and treat it as though it were an annoyance rather than the prize it was.
Well. Elizabeth would have a long time to regret her blindness. She would lie in Anne’s bed at Rosings, growing weaker as Anne’s body continued its inevitable decline, and she would know that everything she had scorned was now Anne’s to claim.
She had Elizabeth’s life now. Elizabeth’s body and health and freedom. And she intended to keep them, along with everything else that should have been hers.
Including Fitzwilliam Darcy’s heart.
Chapter Four
Thedoorburstopenbefore Elizabeth’s screams had fully died away. Mrs. Jenkinson stood in the doorway, her grey dress severe against the dim corridor behind her, her expression fixed in lines of professional concern that didn’t quite reach her eyes. She stepped inside and closed the door behind her with a soft but decisive click, and turned the key. The sound of the lock clicking shut seemed unnaturally loud, and Elizabeth realised with creeping dread that the companion had shut them in together, had deliberately isolated them from anyone who might hear.
Elizabeth tried to push herself upright, her hands scrabbling against the heavy coverlet for purchase. The simple act of sitting required coordination her borrowed body refused to provide. Her arms shook violently, her elbows threatening to buckle beneath her weight. She managed to prop herself onone trembling arm, her other hand clutching the bed frame as though it were the only solid thing in a tilting world.
Mrs. Jenkinson crossed the room with swift steps, her hands already reaching out in the gesture of someone accustomed to managing an invalid. Her face remained composed, arranged in an expression of mild concern that might have been convincing if Elizabeth had not seen the calculation in her eyes as she assessed the situation.
“You’re overtaxing yourself,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, her voice carrying the brisk authority of long habit. She reached Elizabeth’s side and placed one hand firmly on her shoulder, the other moving to adjust the pillows behind her. “You need to rest. Back to bed, now.”
The casual assumption in those words, the way Mrs. Jenkinson spoke to her as though she were simply a recalcitrant patient, sent a spike of fury through Elizabeth’s confusion. She tried to pull away from the woman’s touch, but her muscles responded sluggishly, achieving only a weak twitch.
“What...” Elizabeth’s voice emerged as a rasp, her throat still raw from screaming. She swallowed hard, forcing the words past the constriction. “How... who...”
The sentences fragmented before she could complete them, her thoughts moving faster than her tongue could follow. Too many questions crowded her mind at once.What had Anne done? How had this impossible thing happened? Who could help her?The words tangled together, emerging as incoherent stammering.
Mrs. Jenkinson’s hand on her shoulder pressed down with surprising strength, urging her back toward the pillows. “You’re confused. It’s to be expected after such exertion, visiting the parsonage yesterday. You’ve overtired yourself, and now you’re suffering the consequences. Let me help you lie down properly.”
The patronising tone ignited something fierce in Elizabeth’s chest. She had to make this woman understand. Had to make someone understand. She could not simply be tucked back into bed and dismissed as an invalid having a spell.
Elizabeth planted her feet against the mattress and pushed, using every scrap of strength she possessed to resist Mrs. Jenkinson’s pressure. Her legs trembled with the effort, threatening to give way entirely, but she managed to remain partially upright. She lifted her head, forcing herself to meet the companion’s gaze directly despite the way the room swayed around her.
“I’m not Anne!” The words burst from her with desperate force, her voice stronger now though it cracked on the final syllable. “I’m not Anne de Bourgh!”
She expected shock. Expected denial, or confusion, or some attempt to soothe what would appear to be delusions. Instead, Mrs. Jenkinson went very still. Her hand remained on Elizabeth’s shoulder, but the pressure ceased. Her expression shifted subtly, the professional concern sliding away to reveal something harder and more assessing beneath.
Mrs. Jenkinson studied Elizabeth’s face for a long moment. Elizabeth could see the thoughts turning behind that composed exterior, could see the companion calculating and concluding. The silence stretched between them, broken only by Elizabeth’s laboured breathing and the crackling of the unnecessary fire.
Then Mrs. Jenkinson sighed. It was a sound of resignation rather than surprise, weary acceptance of an anticipated complication. She released Elizabeth’s shoulder and stepped back slightly, her arms folding across her chest in a gesture that was almost defensive.
“Elizabeth Bennet, I presume?” Mrs. Jenkinson’s voice remained steady, matter-of-fact, as though she were confirminga tea order rather than acknowledging an impossible violation of nature. “I suspected she might do something like this.”
The words struck Elizabeth like a physical blow. The room seemed to tilt more violently, though whether from her body’s weakness or the shock of that casual confirmation, she could not tell. Her grip on the bed frame tightened until her knuckles showed white beneath the translucent skin.
“You knew.” Elizabeth’s voice emerged hollow, scraped raw by more than just her earlier screaming. “You knew what she planned to do.”
