No. Elizabeth Bennet was many things, but a malicious plotter was not one of them, he was sure of it. Darcy pushed the unworthy thought away, clinging instead to the rational explanation he had constructed. Jane’s feelings had been insufficient. Elizabeth knew this. Therefore Elizabeth held no grudge. The logic was sound, even if it required him to ignore his own growing doubts.
“I think,” Darcy said finally, turning back to face Fitzwilliam, “that we may be troubling ourselves unnecessarily. Miss Bennet’s behaviour suggests she bears me no ill will regarding the matter. Perhaps she recognises that I acted with Bingley’s best interests at heart, even if she might question my judgement. Perhaps she even agrees that the match would have been unsuitable.”
Fitzwilliam studied him for a long moment, his expression suggesting he saw through this rationalisation but was too kind to say so directly. “Perhaps,” he said, though the word carried little conviction. “I hope you are right, Darcy. For your sake as much as for hers.”
They stood in silence for a moment, the tension between them gradually easing though Darcy’s internal turmoil remained undiminished. He had explained away Elizabeth’s lack of anger, had constructed a narrative that preserved both his past actions and his present hopes. But his conscience refused to be entirely silenced, continued its uncomfortable insistence that his motivations had been less pure than he claimed, his judgement less sound than he believed.
And beneath that, deeper and more disturbing, lay the question he could not quite banish. If Elizabeth truly bore him no ill will regarding her sister, if she truly approved of his protective interference, then why did everything about her behaviour this morning feel so fundamentally wrong?
Chapter Seven
Consciousnessreturnedinfragments,each piece arriving with reluctance. Elizabeth became aware first of the heavy coverlet pressing against her chest, then of the dull ache behind her eyes, then finally of the watching presence in the room. She forced her eyelids open, the act requiring far more effort than it should, and found Mrs. Jenkinson sitting in a high-backed chair beside the bed, spine rigid, hands folded in her lap.
Elizabeth’s mouth tasted of ashes and rot, the lingering bitterness of whatever Mrs. Jenkinson had forced down her throat. How long had she been unconscious this time? The quality of light suggested late afternoon, perhaps approaching evening. Hours lost to drugged oblivion while Anne walked about in her body, lived her life, spoke with her voice.
Elizabeth tried to sit up, her muscles protesting with tremors and weakness. She managed to prop herself on one elbowbefore having to pause, breathing hard. Mrs. Jenkinson watched without offering assistance, her eyes tracking Elizabeth’s struggle with detached interest.
“You should rest longer,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, her voice carrying no warmth. “That body is not accustomed to such exertion.”
“I’ve rested enough.” Elizabeth’s voice emerged rough, scraped raw. She pushed herself more upright, refusing to lie helpless under the companion’s watchful gaze. “How long have I been unconscious?”
“Several hours. It’s nearly time for dinner.” Mrs. Jenkinson’s hands remained folded in her lap, a picture of composed vigilance. “Lady Catherine will expect her daughter to attend, assuming you have recovered sufficiently from your recent spell.”
The words carried weight beyond their surface meaning. Elizabeth studied the companion’s face, searching for some hint of what lay beneath that professional mask. Mrs. Jenkinson knew the truth, knew Elizabeth was not Anne, yet sat here calmly discussing dinner arrangements.
“I intend to go down to dinner,” Elizabeth said, testing the waters. “I wish to see Lady Catherine.”
Something flickered in Mrs. Jenkinson’s expression, too fast to identify clearly. The companion rose from her chair with deliberate slowness, looking down at Elizabeth with an expression that mixed pity and calculation.
“Before you do,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper, “you should understand your situation very clearly. If you go downstairs and make any claims about being in the wrong body, about being Elizabeth Bennet trapped in Anne de Bourgh’s form, do you know what will happen?”
Elizabeth’s throat tightened, but she forced herself to meet the companion’s gaze steadily. “Someone will believe me.”
“No one will believe you.” Mrs. Jenkinson’s tone carried absolute certainty. “They will think you mad, suffering from delusions brought on by illness. Lady Catherine will be distressed, certainly, but she will do what any concerned mother would do. She will have you confined for your own protection.”
The words settled over Elizabeth like a shroud. She wanted to argue, to insist that someone would recognise the truth. But even as the protests formed in her mind, she recognised their futility. Who would believe such an impossible story? Body swapping belonged to fairy tales and folk legends, not to the drawing rooms of respectable society.
“Mr. Darcy is here,” Mrs. Jenkinson continued, driving her point home with surgical precision. “Your supposed betrothed, though he has shown no particular enthusiasm for honouring it these many years. If Anne de Bourgh suddenly began raving about being someone else entirely, claiming her body had been stolen through witchcraft, what do you imagine Mr. Darcy would do?”
Elizabeth’s hands clenched in the coverlet, her borrowed body’s weakness making the gesture almost pathetic. But her mind seized on Mrs. Jenkinson’s words with horrible clarity. Darcy would be relieved. Would welcome any excuse, however extraordinary, to avoid marrying Anne. A madwoman could be quietly confined, his obligation dissolved with sympathy rather than scandal. He would not fight for her, would not question too deeply, would accept the diagnosis of insanity with barely concealed gratitude.
“He would have me committed,” Elizabeth heard herself say, the words emerging hollow. “He would believe I was mad, and he would approve my confinement without hesitation.”
“Precisely.” Mrs. Jenkinson’s expression held no triumph, only weary acceptance. “An asylum, most likely. Somewhere far from society, where inconvenient relatives can be housedcomfortably but securely. You would spend the remainder of your days, however many or few that might be in that failing body, locked away from the world. Is that what you want?”
No. God, no.Elizabeth’s stomach turned at the image Mrs. Jenkinson painted. Trapped not only in Anne’s weak body but in some asylum, surrounded by the genuinely mad, with no hope of rescue or redemption.
But what alternative existed? If she could not tell the truth without risking confinement, how could she hope to reclaim her own life?
Elizabeth forced her breathing to steady, forced her racing thoughts to slow and organise themselves. She was not defeated yet. Mrs. Jenkinson had made the threat to ensure compliance, but threats only worked if the threatened party believed them. Elizabeth did believe it, unfortunately. The danger was real. But that did not mean she had no options remaining.
She would have to be more subtle. Would have to play along while she searched for another way, some path that did not require convincing sceptical strangers that magic was real. There had to be a way to reverse what Anne had done. Magic that could swap bodies might also swap them back. She simply needed time to discover how, and that required staying free, staying present, maintaining enough independence to search for answers. Charlotte, perhaps… if she could get Charlotte alone, speak to her of past events only the two of them knew of, perhaps she could convince Charlotte of who she was.
“I understand,” Elizabeth said finally, keeping her voice level despite the fury burning in her chest. “I will not speak of such things at dinner. I merely wish to eat. I am hungry, and I would prefer not to waste away from starvation.”
Mrs. Jenkinson studied her for a long moment, suspicion clear in her gaze. She was not stupid, this woman. She recognised that Elizabeth’s compliance came from strategy rather than genuineacceptance. But what choice did she have? She could not keep Elizabeth drugged and confined indefinitely. Lady Catherine would notice, would question, would demand explanations.
“Very well,” Mrs. Jenkinson said at last. She moved to the bell pull and rang for a maid. “I will have someone help you dress for dinner. You will conduct yourself with appropriate dignity, will respond to Lady Catherine’s questions about your health with reassurances, and will under no circumstances make any claims that might cause alarm.”
