It was not a question. Mrs. Jenkinson’s lack of surprise, her immediate recognition of the situation, her expression of weary resignation, all pointed to prior knowledge. The companion had known Anne intended to steal Elizabeth’s body, and she had done nothing to prevent it. Had perhaps helped facilitate it.
Mrs. Jenkinson only shrugged. “I had suspicions. Miss Anne has been studying her father’s grimoire for years, obsessing over certain passages. I’ve cared for her long enough to recognise when she’s planning something.” She paused, her gaze drifting toward the window. “But I didn’t know for certain until now. Not until you confirmed it.”
Elizabeth’s mind reeled, trying to process the implications. Anne had been planning this for years. Had been studying, preparing, waiting for the right opportunity and the right victim. And Mrs. Jenkinson had watched it all happening, had seen the signs, and had remained silent.
“Why?”The single word contained a universe of questions. Why had Mrs. Jenkinson allowed it? Why hadn’t she warned anyone? Why was she standing here now, speaking with such calm acceptance of an atrocity?
“Why?” Mrs. Jenkinson’s lips curved in something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Because Miss Anne is my charge. Has been since she was just a little girl. I’ve watched her suffer for morethan fifteen years, watched her body fail a little more each day, watched her hope drain away until nothing remained but bitterness.” She shook her head slowly. “I pitied her.”
“Pity doesn’t excuse this.” Elizabeth’s voice shook, not with weakness now but with fury. “She stole mybody. Trapped me in this...“ She gestured helplessly at herself, at Anne’s frail form. “You can’t believe pity justifies such wickedness.”
Mrs. Jenkinson’s expression hardened. “I don’t require your moral instruction, Miss Bennet. You’ve had health and strength all your life. You’ve never known what it is to be trapped in a body that betrays you daily, to watch others move freely while you can barely manage stairs. Perhaps if you had, you might understand desperation.”
“Desperation doesn’t give her the right to steal mylife!”Elizabeth tried to push herself more upright, but her arms gave out and she collapsed back against the pillows, gasping. The exertion cost her dearly, and she had to close her eyes against the spots dancing in her vision.
When she opened her eyes again, Mrs. Jenkinson had moved closer. The companion stood at the bedside, looking down at Elizabeth with an expression that mixed pity and something that might have been regret with cold pragmatism.
“What’s done is done,” Mrs. Jenkinson said quietly. “Raging against it will only exhaust you further, and that body can ill afford such exertion. You need to accept your situation and conserve your strength.”
“Accept it?” Elizabeth stared at her in disbelief. “You expect me to simplyacceptthat Anne has stolen my body, my life?”
“I expect you to be practical,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied. “You’re at Rosings, in Miss de Bourgh’s body, under my care. No one will believe your claims. Lady Catherine herself would have you committed to an asylum if you started insisting you were Elizabeth Bennet. Your only option is to cooperate.”
The words settled over Elizabeth like a suffocating blanket. Mrs. Jenkinson was right about one thing; no one would believe her. The truth was too impossible, too fantastical. Anyone she told would think her mad, would attribute her claims to illness or delusion. Anne had chosen her victim and her moment with careful calculation, ensuring Elizabeth would be trapped in a situation where she could not seek help without being dismissed as insane.
Elizabeth looked up at Mrs. Jenkinson, studying the companion’s composed face, and felt the first stirrings of genuine terror. She was utterly alone, completely at the mercy of a woman who had already demonstrated her loyalty lay with Anne rather than with truth or justice. Whatever happened next, whatever Mrs. Jenkinson decided to do, Elizabeth had no power to resist.
Her body was too weak. Her position too impossible. Her isolation too complete.
She was trapped.
Mrs. Jenkinson seized the heavy coverlet and drew it up over her. The weight of the bedclothes settled across Elizabeth’s body like a physical restraint, pinning her to the mattress. She tried to push the covers aside, but her hands moved sluggishly, achieving nothing beyond a weak flutter of fingers against the expensive fabric.
Mrs. Jenkinson tucked the edges of the blankets firmly beneath the mattress on either side, creating a neat cocoon that trapped Elizabeth’s arms at her sides. The gesture was methodical, the sort of thing the companion had likely donethousands of times before, settling an invalid for rest. But the effect was profoundly different when the person being tucked in possessed full consciousness and fierce objection to the treatment.
Elizabeth felt reduced to helplessness not by choice but by the betrayal of this borrowed body. She could feel her heart hammering against her ribs, could feel sweat dampening her hairline despite the chill that had begun creeping through her limbs, but she could not summon the strength to free herself from something as simple as firmly tucked-in bedclothes. The humiliation of it burned almost as fiercely as her fear.
“Let me up.” Elizabeth’s voice emerged steady despite everything, carrying the authority she would have used with an obstinate servant at Longbourn. “I will not be restrained like this. I have done nothing to deserve such treatment.”
Mrs. Jenkinson straightened, smoothing her grey skirts. “You’ve exhausted yourself. Rest is what you require now, not further agitation.”
But Elizabeth’s mind was racing too quickly for rest, piecing together fragments of information into a coherent whole. Anne had done this. Anne de Bourgh, whom everyone believed too weak and sickly to harm anyone, had learned magic from her dead father. Sir Lewis de Bourgh had been an eccentric, Elizabeth remembered hearing Lady Catherine mention once, saying dismissively that he had wasted time on peculiar studies. But those studies had clearly delved into something darker than mere eccentricity. He had learned witchcraft, had practiced it, and had taught it to his daughter.
“How did she do it?” Elizabeth asked, though she already suspected Mrs. Jenkinson would not answer. “What spell or potion could possibly achieve such a thing?”
Mrs. Jenkinson’s expression remained carefully neutral. “I am not privy to the details of Miss Anne’s studies. I only know what little I’ve gathered from caring for her all these years.”
“Then tell me how to reverse it.” Elizabeth fought to keep desperation from her voice, to maintain some semblance of dignity despite her position. “There must be a way to undo what she’s done. If there’s magic to swap bodies, there must be magic to swap them back.”
For a long moment, Mrs. Jenkinson said nothing. She stood at the bedside, her hands folded at her waist, her expression unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice carried a finality that sent ice through Elizabeth’s veins.
“It cannot be reversed. What is done is done.”
The words hung in the air between them, absolute and damning. Elizabeth studied Mrs. Jenkinson’s face, searching for some sign of deception, some indication that the companion was lying to discourage her from attempting to reclaim her body. But the woman’s features remained smooth, revealing nothing beyond calm certainty.
Was she lying? Elizabeth could not tell. Mrs. Jenkinson’s years of service in this household had clearly taught her to school her expression, to present whatever face the situation required. She might be telling the truth. Or she might be protecting Anne’s theft by convincing Elizabeth that resistance was futile.
“I don’t believe you,” Elizabeth said, though uncertainty gnawed at her confidence. “You’re trying to make me give up hope. But I won’t. I’ll find a way to undo this, with or without your help.”
