Mrs. Jenkinson’s lips compressed into a thin line. She turned away from the bed without responding, crossing to the dressing table where various bottles and vials stood in neat rows. Elizabeth watched her select one of the bottles, a dark glass container that looked almost black in the dim light. Mrs.Jenkinson removed the stopper with a soft pop and poured a measure of liquid into a small crystal glass.
“What is that?” Elizabeth demanded as Mrs. Jenkinson approached the bed with the glass in hand.
“Something to help you rest,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied calmly. “You’ve had a severe shock, and your body cannot tolerate such strain. This will ease your distress.”
“I don’t want it.” Elizabeth tried to edge away as much as the tight bedclothes allowed, which was not far at all. “I don’t need your medicine. I need answers, I need help, I need my own body returned to me.”
Mrs. Jenkinson set the glass on the bedside table and bent over Elizabeth, her hands moving to adjust the pillows behind her head. The gesture seemed helpful at first, arranging Elizabeth into a more upright position, until Elizabeth realised the companion was positioning her for easier access. Mrs. Jenkinson retrieved the glass and held it near Elizabeth’s mouth.
“Drink this,” she said, her voice brooking no argument.
“No.” Elizabeth pressed her lips together firmly, turning her head away from the proffered glass. “I will not drink something when I don’t know what it contains. You could be poisoning me.”
“If I wished to poison you, I could do so far more easily than this.” Mrs. Jenkinson’s tone remained infuriatingly patient. “This is merely a sedative, something to calm your nerves and help you sleep. Miss Anne takes it regularly. The dose is already measured; you need only drink it.”
But Elizabeth had no intention of being drugged into compliance. Whatever was in that glass, whether sedative or something worse, it would render her even more helpless than she already was. She needed to remain conscious, needed to think clearly, needed to find some way out of this nightmare. She kept her face turned away, her lips sealed against the glass’s approach.
Mrs. Jenkinson sighed, a sound of weary resignation. “I had hoped you would be sensible about this.”
Before Elizabeth could react, Mrs. Jenkinson’s free hand shot out and pinched her nose closed, blocking her airway completely. Elizabeth’s eyes widened in shock. She tried to twist away, but the companion’s grip was iron firm, and Elizabeth’s weakened body could not break it. Seconds passed, and her lungs began to burn with the need for air. She held out as long as she could, stubbornness warring with biology, but finally her body betrayed her. Her mouth opened in a desperate gasp.
Mrs. Jenkinson immediately brought the glass to her lips and tipped it, pouring bitter liquid directly into Elizabeth’s mouth. Elizabeth tried to spit it out, but Mrs. Jenkinson’s hand clamped over her mouth and nose together, forcing her to either swallow or choke. The liquid burned down her throat, coating her tongue with a taste like charcoal and rotting flowers. She coughed violently once Mrs. Jenkinson released her, but the damage was done. The medicine was inside her.
“There,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, setting the empty glass aside and wiping her hands with a handkerchief she produced from her pocket. “That wasn’t so terrible, was it? You’ll feel better shortly.”
Elizabeth wanted to rage at her, to demand why she would force such treatment on someone who had done nothing wrong, but her tongue felt suddenly thick in her mouth. The room had begun to soften at the edges, the solid lines of furniture blurring into gentler curves. A strange heaviness crept through her limbs, different from the weakness she’d felt before. This was a weight that pressed down from inside, slowing her thoughts, making even the act of keeping her eyes open require conscious effort.
“What did you give me?” The words slurred together despite her attempt to speak clearly.
“Something to help you rest,” Mrs. Jenkinson repeated. She was moving around the room now, though Elizabeth could no longer track her movements properly. The companion seemed to blur and multiply, her grey dress fragmenting into multiple overlapping images.
Elizabeth tried to fight it, tried to hold onto consciousness through sheer determination. But the drug was too strong, and Anne’s body too weak. The darkness gathering at the edges of her vision began creeping inward, consuming the room piece by piece. She could feel herself slipping away, falling into a void that had nothing to do with natural sleep.
Why?The question formed in her mind even as thought became increasingly difficult. Why was Mrs. Jenkinson so loyal to Anne’s wicked scheme? What hold did the girl have over her companion that would make a woman participate in such evil? Was it merely long habit, years of service transforming into blind devotion? Or did Anne possess some other leverage, some threat or promise that ensured Mrs. Jenkinson’s cooperation?
Elizabeth could not even make her lips form the questions. The darkness claimed her entirely, pulling her down into depths where questions could not follow. Her last sensation was of the bitter taste still coating her tongue, a reminder that she was now at the complete mercy of people who had already demonstrated they possessed none.
The room faded to black, and Elizabeth knew nothing more.
Chapter Five
Thespringmorningpresenteditself with almost aggressive cheerfulness. Sunlight filtered through newly leafed branches, creating shifting patterns across the path. Birds called to one another, their songs carried on a breeze that smelled of growing things. Yet Darcy found his attention less on the scenery than on the woman beside him. Miss Elizabeth Bennet walked beside him, her hand resting lightly on his arm, and he should have been entirely pleased. He was pleased, in the main. But something nagged at him, a sense of wrongness he could not quite identify.
Elizabeth smiled up at him, and the expression was warm, open, encouraging. Everything he might have hoped for, yet it struck him as slightly off, like a portrait painted by a skilled artist who had never met their subject. The smile reached her eyes, but something in the quality of it felt unfamiliar.
“What a lovely morning,” she said, her voice carrying genuine enthusiasm. “I cannot recall when I last enjoyed such perfect weather for walking.”
Darcy glanced at her, surprised by the conventional sentiment. But perhaps her illness had left her thoughts less sharp than usual. He had been genuinely alarmed when Mrs. Collins reported her sudden affliction, had called at the parsonage last night only to be told she was sleeping. The memory still carried a weight of disappointment.
He had been ready. Had spent the previous few days rehearsing what he would say, how he would express feelings that had grown beyond his ability to contain them. Miss Bennet’s illness had forced postponement, and he had passed a restless night questioning whether delay was wisdom or cowardice. Now she walked beside him, apparently recovered, and the perfect opportunity had presented itself. Yet something held him back.
“I am glad to see you so improved,” Darcy said carefully. “You gave us all concern yesterday.”
“Did I?” She looked up at him again, that same warm smile in place. “How kind of you to worry. But as you can see, I am perfectly well now. Better than well, in fact. I feel quite wonderful.”
The words themselves were unremarkable, but her manner struck Darcy as odd. Elizabeth typically deflected excessive concern with wit or gentle mockery, not with this earnest gratitude. He found himself studying her face more closely, searching for some explanation.
She met his gaze without her usual challenging spark, her expression open and pleasant. Too pleasant, perhaps. Elizabeth’s particular charm had always resided partly in her willingness to disagree, to tease, to maintain her own opinions. This compliant warmth felt foreign.
