“Of course,” Elizabeth agreed, the words tasting like ashes. “I am Anne de Bourgh. Why would I claim to be anyone else?”
The irony in her tone was perhaps too sharp, but Mrs. Jenkinson let it pass. A knock sounded at the door, and a young maid entered at the companion’s summons. The girl curtseyed, her eyes downcast, clearly accustomed to Anne’s presence requiring no particular acknowledgement.
“Help Miss de Bourgh dress for dinner,” Mrs. Jenkinson instructed. “The green silk, I think. And the pearls.”
The maid curtseyed again and moved to the wardrobe. Elizabeth watched her work, resigned. She would have to endure being dressed in Anne’s clothes, adorned with Anne’s jewellery, presented as Anne to Anne’s family. The humiliation of it burned, but she had no choice. Not yet.
As the maid approached with a chemise and stays, Elizabeth forced herself to cooperate, lifting her arms when directed, standing when instructed though her legs trembled with the effort. The process of dressing seemed to take forever, each layer of clothing another reminder of her imprisonment. The silk gown whispered against her skin, expensive and beautiful and entirely wrong. The pearls lay cool and heavy against her collarbone, their weight a reminder of the wealth and status that belonged to Anne but could never belong to Elizabeth Bennet.
Through it all, Mrs. Jenkinson watched, her presence ensuring Elizabeth could not search the room, could not look for evidence of Anne’s methods, could not do anything but submit to being transformed into a convincing replica of the woman who had stolen her life.
The maid stepped back, her work complete. Elizabeth found herself facing the mirror once more, seeing Anne de Bourgh staring back at her in full evening regalia. The green silk complemented her pale complexion, the pearls added elegance, the delicate curls framed her face becomingly. She looked exactly as Anne de Bourgh should look.
She looked nothing like Elizabeth Bennet.
Elizabeth met her own eyes in the mirror, those pale, wrong eyes that belonged to another woman’s face, and made a silent promise. She would find a way to undo this. Would discover Anne’s methods and reverse them. Would reclaim her own body and her own life, no matter what obstacles stood in her path.
But first, she had to survive dinner without being declared insane.
The maid curtseyed one final time and departed, closing the door softly. Mrs. Jenkinson moved to follow, pausing at the threshold to deliver one last pointed look. “I will return in a few minutes to escort you downstairs. Do not attempt to leave this room without me.” Then she too was gone, the door clicking shut with finality, and Elizabeth found herself blessedly, briefly alone.
She remained frozen for several heartbeats, listening intently. Mrs. Jenkinson’s footsteps receded down the corridor, growing fainter, then disappearing entirely.
Elizabeth moved.
Her first steps were unsteady, Anne’s body protesting the sudden demand. The elaborate dress hampered her movement, the heavy silk catching around her legs, the stays restricting her breathing more than she was accustomed to. But she forced herself forward, crossing to the nearest chest of drawers with determination that exceeded her physical capability.
The first drawer yielded nothing of interest. Stockings, carefully folded. Gloves arranged by colour. Small clothes so delicate it seemed they might tear at a harsh word. Elizabeth pushed past them with trembling fingers, searching for anything that might explain Anne’s methods.
The second drawer was equally disappointing. More clothing, some letters tied with ribbon that Elizabeth did not have time to read, a few pieces of inexpensive jewellery that must hold sentimental value. Nothing that would help.
Elizabeth’s frustration mounted with each fruitless search. She moved to the wardrobe, pulling open the doors and running her hands along the shelves, disturbing neat stacks of folded garments, feeling behind them for hidden compartments. Her arms ached with the effort, trembling from exertion that should have been trivial. She wanted to scream at this body’s weakness, at its betrayal, at its absolute refusal to do what she needed.
But screaming would accomplish nothing except perhaps bringing Mrs. Jenkinson back earlier than expected. Elizabeth forced herself to breathe slowly, to think rather than simply search in mounting panic. Where would she keep secrets she did not want her mother or the servants to discover?
Elizabeth’s gaze swept the room, cataloguing the furniture with new attention. The chest of drawers, already searched. Thewardrobe, now in disarray from her rummaging. The nightstand held only a book of sermons and a candle. The writing desk in the corner beckoned, but Elizabeth had explored it briefly during her first desperate exploration after waking and found nothing of note. It was too delicate a piece to have hidden compartments.
The dressing table. Elizabeth turned toward it, studying its ornate construction with fresh eyes. It was an expensive piece, French perhaps, with delicate legs and elaborate carving along the drawer fronts. The sort of furniture that might contain hidden compartments, secret drawers meant for concealing love letters or other private items.
Elizabeth crossed to it on unsteady legs, sinking onto the padded stool before her knees could give out entirely. She ran her hands over the smooth wood surface, feeling for irregularities, for catches or springs that might reveal hidden spaces. The main drawers opened easily, revealing the usual contents. Combs and brushes. Small bottles of perfume.
But at the very back of the centre drawer, Elizabeth’s questing fingers found something unexpected. Metal, where there should have been only wood. She put pressure on the knob, trying first a push, then a pull, and felt a click.
A small drawer sprang open, so cleverly concealed that Elizabeth would never have found it without deliberate searching. Inside lay a slim leather-bound journal, its cover worn and stained with frequent handling.
Elizabeth’s hands shook as she lifted it free. The book felt heavier than its size warranted, as though the knowledge contained within possessed physical weight. She opened it to a random page and found herself staring at cramped script documenting ingredients and measurements, instructions for preparation and timing. A recipe for some concoction.
She flipped back to the beginning and found an inscription in a different hand, firmer and more masculine than the crampedwriting that filled the subsequent pages. “To my dearest Anne, from your devoted father. May these secrets bring you the power to shape your own destiny.”
Sir Lewis de Bourgh. Had he been the possessor of this alchemical knowledge, passing it on to his daughter before his death? Elizabeth’s heart hammered against her ribs as she began turning pages, scanning recipe after recipe. A draught to induce deep sleep. A tonic to enhance beauty. A potion to ease pain. And then, more disturbing entries. A philtre to inspire love. A powder to cause prophetic dreams. A tea to weaken the will.
Elizabeth’s fingers flew through the pages, searching for what she knew must be here. The spell or potion Anne had used to steal her body. There had to be instructions, had to be some record of how it was accomplished.
The dinner gong sounded from somewhere below, its deep tone reverberating through the house. Elizabeth nearly dropped the journal, her heart leaping into her throat. How long had she been searching? How many minutes remained before Mrs. Jenkinson returned?
She snapped the journal closed and looked frantically around the room for a hiding place, not wanting to put it back in the secret drawer. Under the mattress, she decided, the first solution that occurred to her panicked mind. Elizabeth crossed to the bed and shoved the journal beneath the thick mattress, pushing it as far toward the centre as her arm could reach. Not a perfect hiding place, but it would have to suffice.
Her hands were still shaking as she straightened, smoothing down the green silk that had become rumpled during her frantic searching. She could feel sweat beading at her temples despite the room’s relative coolness, could feel her heart still racing.
