Darcy studied his cousin more closely. Anne’s breathing had become rapid and shallow, her chest rising and falling with visible effort. A sheen of perspiration had appeared on her forehead despite the dining room’s moderate temperature. Her fingers clutched at the table’s edge as though it were the only thing preventing her from collapsing entirely.
What could possibly account for such a reaction? Anne had met Elizabeth before, had been present at previous dinners. She had never shown any particular interest in or distress about the parson’s guest. Yet now she stared at Elizabeth with what looked remarkably like fear, or perhaps horror, her expression suggesting she was seeing something invisible to everyone else.
The candelabra nearest Anne cast harsh shadows across her face, emphasising the hollows beneath her cheekbones, the dark circles under her eyes. She looked ill, worse than her usual fragile state, as though the effort of sitting through dinner had exhausted her beyond her capacity.
Lady Catherine noticed Anne’s distress and leaned toward her daughter, murmuring something Darcy could not hear. Anneshook her head slightly but did not look away from Elizabeth, her gaze remaining fixed with that same terrible intensity.
Darcy’s attention was drawn across the table by a slight movement. Charlotte Collins had been sitting quietly through most of the meal, participating in conversation when addressed but otherwise maintaining pleasant neutrality. Now, however, she was watching Elizabeth with an expression that suggested deep confusion mixed with growing concern.
Charlotte’s gaze moved from Elizabeth to Darcy, and their eyes met briefly across the table. In that moment, Darcy saw his own puzzlement reflected back. Charlotte’s expression said clearly that she too found Elizabeth’s behaviour wrong, inexplicable, fundamentally at odds with the friend she knew.
The moment of shared recognition lasted only seconds before Charlotte looked away, her attention returning to her plate. But it was enough. Elizabeth’s closest friend, the person who knew her best of anyone present, had silently confirmed what Darcy had been thinking all evening. Something was profoundly wrong with Elizabeth Bennet.
The servants presented the next course, the elaborate dishes arranged artfully on serving platters. Crystal and silver gleamed, china clinked softly, and the dinner proceeded with scripted formality. On the surface, everything appeared as it should, another evening at Rosings following its predictable pattern.
But beneath that surface, wrongness festered. Lady Catherine sat rigid with barely suppressed anger, her periodic glances toward Elizabeth sharp with disapproval. Collins watched his guest with obvious displeasure. Anne stared at Elizabeth with frightened eyes, her hands trembling against the table. Charlotte observed her friend with troubled confusion. And Fitzwilliam sat in unusual silence, his typical good humour dimmed by Elizabeth’s inexplicable coldness.
Darcy looked at Elizabeth again, this woman who wore a familiar face but possessed none of the spirit that made that face remarkable. She smiled at him across the table, warm and encouraging, and he felt his stomach turn with the wrongness of it.
Whatever was happening, whatever impossible thing had transformed Elizabeth Bennet into this pleasant stranger, Darcy was no longer alone in sensing it. The conviction settled over him with grim certainty. Multiple people at this table knew something was profoundly amiss, even if none of them could articulate what it might be.
And the evening was far from over.
Chapter Nine
Theparlourfeltsowarm Elizabeth could hardly breathe, though she knew the temperature was perfectly comfortable for anyone not trapped in Anne de Bourgh’s failing body. She had been positioned in the chair closest to the fire, Mrs. Jenkinson’s doing, and the heat combined with the weight of the green silk gown made her feel as though she might faint. Her hands lay folded in her lap, pale and delicate and utterly wrong, while across the room her own body moved with careless freedom.
Elizabeth watched Anne cross to the window, watched her push the heavy casement further open with casual ease, watched her turn back to the company with a smile that used Elizabeth’s mouth but belonged to someone else entirely. The movement was effortless, graceful in a way Elizabeth had taken for granted until this nightmare had stripped such capabilities away. Anne walked without trembling, stood without needing support,breathed without effort. She inhabited Elizabeth’s healthy body as though it had always been hers.
The injustice of it burned in Elizabeth’s chest, a fury that had no outlet, no means of expression. She could not rage, could not accuse, could not even stand and cross the room without risking collapse. Anne had imprisoned her as effectively as iron chains.
The parlour itself seemed designed to intimidate, all rich fabrics and gleaming surfaces arranged to showcase Lady Catherine’s consequence. Ornate furniture stood in precise groupings, upholstered in burgundy and gold, each piece clearly expensive and uncomfortable. Portraits of stern-faced ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow movement with disapproval. The pianoforte stood in the corner near the windows, its polished wood reflecting candlelight.
Elizabeth forced her attention away from Anne, forced herself to observe the others. Charlotte sat on the sofa beside Mr. Collins, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression composed in that careful neutrality she had perfected since her marriage. But Elizabeth knew Charlotte too well to be fooled by surface serenity. Her friend’s gaze kept drifting toward Anne, toward the woman wearing Elizabeth’s face, and each time Charlotte’s brow furrowed slightly.
Charlotte sensed something wrong. The knowledge settled over Elizabeth with the weight of both hope and frustration. Her dearest friend, who knew her better than anyone save Jane, recognised that the woman calling herself Elizabeth Bennet was somehow not herself. But what good did that recognition do? Charlotte perhaps attributed Elizabeth’s strange behaviour to illness or some temporary alteration of mood, but she would never leap to the impossible truth. Would never imagine that magic existed, that bodies could be swapped, that her friend had been stolen away.
Elizabeth considered it, briefly, desperately. Could she somehow communicate with Charlotte? Catch her eye, convey through expression or gesture that something was terribly wrong? But even as the thought formed, Elizabeth dismissed it. What would she say? How could she possibly explain? Charlotte would think her mad, would alert Lady Catherine, and Elizabeth would find herself confined. She would have to try and get Charlotte alone, somehow, but Mrs. Jenkinson was watching her with an eagle eye and Elizabeth knew it would not be tonight. If ever.
Her gaze shifted to Mr. Darcy, who stood near the fireplace in conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam, though his attention kept drifting toward Anne. Elizabeth watched him watch her stolen body, saw the confusion evident in his expression, the slight furrow of his brow that suggested he was trying to solve a puzzle with insufficient pieces. He too sensed something amiss, though he clearly could not determine what troubled him.
For a wild moment, Elizabeth considered trying to communicate with him. Darcy was intelligent, perceptive when he chose to be. He had clearly noticed the changes in “Elizabeth’s” behaviour, was troubled by them. Perhaps he might be convinced, might be willing to at least investigate the possibility that something extraordinary had occurred.
But no. That idea was absurd. Darcy would think her mad, would be relieved for an excuse to avoid marrying Anne, would sign whatever papers Lady Catherine put before him declaring her unfit. Elizabeth could not risk losing what little freedom she still possessed.
Lady Catherine held court from her thronelike chair. She had been delivering opinions about parish matters to Mr. Collins for the past several minutes, her voice carrying across the room with the certainty of someone who had never beenseriously contradicted. Mr. Collins nodded eagerly at each pronouncement.
Elizabeth’s attention snapped back to the present as Lady Catherine’s voice rose slightly.
“Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine said, the words carrying imperious command. “You will favour us with some music. I insist upon it.”
Elizabeth’s gaze flew to Anne, watched as something like panic flashed across her stolen face. Anne had been standing near the window, engaged in some idle observation about the gardens with Maria Lucas, but now she turned to face Lady Catherine with an expression that cycled rapidly through alarm, calculation, and forced pleasantness.
“I thank you for the invitation, Lady Catherine,” Anne said, using Elizabeth’s voice but speaking with a formality Elizabeth would never have employed. “But I find I am more inclined toward conversation this evening. Perhaps another time.”
The refusal was polite enough, but Lady Catherine’s expression suggested she did not take kindly to having her commands declined. Her small eyes narrowed, her lips compressing into a thin line.
“Nonsense,” Lady Catherine declared. “You do play quite well, though you disclaim it; both my nephews have expressed pleasure in hearing you.” She gave them no opportunity to agree, but carried on. “You will be departing Kent soon enough; be so good as to favour us with one last performance.”
