Anne’s fingers began fidgeting with Elizabeth’s skirts, plucking at the muslin in a gesture of nervous agitation. Anne was frightened, and not simply of Lady Catherine’s displeasure. Her gaze darted toward the pianoforte as though it were an instrument of torture, and her face had gone pale beneath the healthy colour Elizabeth’s complexion naturally carried.
Understanding crashed over Elizabeth with sudden, brilliant clarity. Anne could not play. Had never learned the instrument, had spent her youth too ill to sit for the hours of practice required to develop even basic competence. Elizabeth had not considered the significance until now, but watching Anne’s panic made everything clear.
The witch who had studied alchemy with her father, who had learned to brew potions powerful enough to swap bodies, who had planned this theft with meticulous care, had overlooked one crucial detail. She did not possess Elizabeth’s accomplishments, could not replicate Elizabeth’s abilities, could only inhabit her body without being able to truly become her.
Elizabeth felt something like hope stir in her chest for the first time since waking. Anne had made a mistake. Had revealed a weakness.
Her mind raced, calculating possibilities, weighing risks. She could expose Anne here, now, by insisting she play. The impostor would be forced to either refuse repeatedly, drawing Lady Catherine’s ire and perhaps raising questions, or attempt to play and reveal her complete lack of skill. Either outcome would create confusion, would plant seeds of doubt.
But Elizabeth needed to be careful. Needed to create the opportunity without appearing to force it, without drawing suspicion to herself. Anne’s panic was already visible to anyone who cared to look. Elizabeth simply needed to provide the perfect excuse for the exposure to continue… and, too, this might be her only chance to force Anne to speak to her directly. She could potentially gather valuable information.
Elizabeth did not allow herself time to reconsider. She drew a careful breath, summoning Anne’s soft, hesitant voice, and spoke before her courage could falter.
“I have always wanted to learn the pianoforte,” she said, pitching her voice to carry just enough to be heard. “PerhapsMiss Bennet might be kind enough to give me a lesson? I should so like to understand the basics of the instrument.”
The request hung in the air for a moment, and Elizabeth watched Anne’s face cycle through shock, alarm, and barely suppressed fury in rapid succession. But before Anne could formulate a response, before she could find some polite way to refuse, Mr. Collins inserted himself into the conversation with his characteristic lack of awareness.
“What an excellent notion!” Mr. Collins exclaimed, rising from the sofa with enough enthusiasm that Charlotte had to steady herself. He clasped his hands together, his round face beaming. “Such humility, Miss de Bourgh, to offer one of lesser station an opportunity to instruct you! And how generous it would be of my cousin to provide instruction. Miss Bennet is quite accomplished at the pianoforte, though I confess her performance lacks the superior elegance one might find in young ladies of higher station.”
He turned toward Anne, directing his attention to the woman he believed to be his cousin, his expression radiating expectation mixed with that particular smugness he displayed when arranging matters to his satisfaction. “You would be doing Miss de Bourgh a great service, Cousin Elizabeth. Lady Catherine has been most generous in her hospitality toward you, and it would be only proper to repay that kindness with such assistance. I am certain you will be delighted to help Miss de Bourgh in this endeavour.”
The words were phrased as though offering a choice, but Collins’s tone made clear he expected immediate agreement. He had framed the request as a matter of propriety and gratitude, making refusal tantamount to rudeness. Elizabeth watched Anne’s jaw tighten, saw her stolen hands curl into fists at her sides before she forced them to relax.
“How very kind of you to volunteer my assistance, Mr. Collins,” Anne said, her voice carrying an edge that Collins appeared entirely oblivious to. “Though I hesitate to impose my limited skills upon Miss de Bourgh. Surely there are more qualified instructors available.”
But before Collins could respond, before the moment could slip away, Mr. Darcy spoke from his position near the fireplace.
“I think it an excellent idea,” Darcy said, his deep voice carrying easily across the parlour. “Miss Bennet plays with great spirit, even if her technical execution is not always precise. She would make an admirable instructor for someone just beginning to learn.” He looked at Anne directly, and Elizabeth saw something shift in his expression, something that might have been hope. “Your willingness to share your accomplishment speaks well of your generous nature.”
Elizabeth felt a pang of bitter irony at his words. Darcy praising Anne for Elizabeth’s generosity, approving of behaviour that was entirely calculated manipulation. But she pushed the feeling aside, focused instead on the trap closing around Anne.
Anne’s face had gone pale beneath Elizabeth’s naturally healthy complexion, and Elizabeth could see her mind working frantically, searching for some escape that would not expose her ignorance or make her appear churlish. Her gaze darted from Collins to Darcy to Lady Catherine, seeking some reprieve, but finding none.
Lady Catherine had been watching this exchange with an expression that suggested she found the entire situation both tedious and vaguely irritating. Now she waved one imperious hand, cutting off whatever protest Anne might have been formulating.
“It is settled then,” Lady Catherine declared, her voice brooking no argument. “Anne requires instruction on the pianoforte, and Miss Bennet will provide it. They will go to theinstrument now and begin immediately.” She paused, her gaze sweeping the room. “The rest of you will remain here with me. I will not have my daughter subjected to an audience while she is learning. Such scrutiny would be most inappropriate for a young lady of her delicate sensibilities.”
The command was absolute. Elizabeth understood immediately that Lady Catherine’s concern was not for Anne’s comfort but for her pride. She did not wish to witness her daughter’s potential failures, did not want to see Anne struggle with something she should have learned years ago. Better to have the lesson conducted at a distance, where any mistakes could be concealed or minimised.
But the command served Elizabeth’s purposes perfectly. Privacy meant the opportunity to speak with Anne without witnesses, without the constraint of maintaining performances for the assembled company. Whatever happened at that pianoforte would occur away from ears that might hear accusations they would never believe.
Anne’s expression had settled into something that looked remarkably like trapped fury, but she could not refuse now. Not with Collins beaming his approval, Darcy watching with expectation, Lady Catherine commanding immediate compliance. She had been outmanoeuvred by social convention.
“Of course,” Anne said finally, the words emerging stiff and reluctant. “I would be delighted to provide instruction to Miss de Bourgh.”
The lie was obvious to Elizabeth, but Mr. Collins appeared satisfied, and Mr. Darcy nodded his approval, and Lady Catherine had already turned her attention to Colonel Fitzwilliam. The matter was settled, the trap sprung, and Elizabeth felt triumph war with apprehension.
She placed her pale hand on the arm of the settee and pushed, summoning what strength Anne’s body possessed. The simpleact of standing up required concentration, careful distribution of weight. Elizabeth managed it, though she had to pause once standing to steady herself, one hand gripping the settee’s back while the room swayed slightly.
Across the room, Anne had begun moving toward the pianoforte with visible reluctance, Elizabeth’s body responding to her direction with easy grace. Anne walked with her shoulders slightly hunched, her steps lacking the natural confidence Elizabeth typically displayed, and the wrongness of it all struck Elizabeth anew.
Elizabeth took her first careful step, testing her balance, feeling Anne’s legs tremble beneath her weight. Another step, and another, each one requiring deliberate effort. The distance to the pianoforte seemed vast. In Anne’s failing form, it felt like miles.
But Elizabeth continued forward, refusing to falter. Her heart hammered against her ribs, partly from the physical exertion and partly from anticipation. She was walking toward a confrontation with the woman who had stolen her life, toward the first opportunity to speak privately since this nightmare began. And she was walking toward the possibility of exposing Anne’s deception, of planting seeds of doubt that might eventually grow into her salvation.
Anne fell into step beside her, their skirts rustling together in a whisper of silk and muslin that seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet that had fallen over the room. Elizabeth was acutely aware of the watching eyes tracking their progress, but she kept her attention fixed on the pianoforte ahead.
Their footsteps created an odd rhythm, Elizabeth’s slow and careful, punctuated by slight hesitations when Anne’s body threatened to betray her, while Anne’s were quicker but somehow wrong, lacking the natural confidence with which Elizabeth typically moved. It was as though Anne had not yet learned to fully inhabit the stolen body. Elizabeth found grim satisfaction in that observation, proof that Anne’s theft was imperfect.
