Elizabeth’s fingers trembled at her sides, partly from weakness and partly from the anticipation building in her chest. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Lady Catherine’s voice carried across the distance, holding forth to Colonel Fitzwilliam about some matter of estate management, her imperious tone suggesting she had already dismissed the two young women from her awareness. Mr. Collins had returned to the sofa beside Charlotte. Mr. Darcy remained near the fireplace, but Elizabeth could feel his gaze on her back.
Elizabeth’s vision swam slightly, spots dancing at the edges as the exertion caught up with her borrowed body’s limited capacity. She forced her breathing to remain steady, refused to gasp or stagger, maintained her careful progress through sheer determination. Anne glanced at her once, a quick sideways look that might have been concern if Elizabeth had not seen the calculation in it. Anne was assessing whether Elizabeth would make it to the pianoforte without collapsing, whether she would embarrass herself.
But Elizabeth would not grant Anne that satisfaction. Would not falter now, not when she had engineered this opportunity so carefully.
The pianoforte stood in the corner near the tall windows, its dark wood gleaming in the candlelight, its ivory keys pristine and untouched. Elizabeth could see her reflection in the polishedsurface, distorted and strange, Anne de Bourgh’s pale face staring back at her.
Anne’s reflection appeared beside hers, Elizabeth’s own features twisted into an expression of barely suppressed fury that Elizabeth had never worn, would never have recognised as belonging to her. Anne was not frightened of exposure, she realised. She was angry, deeply and visibly angry, and the recognition sent a chill through Elizabeth’s awareness.
Anne had been outmanoeuvred, trapped by social convention and her own inability to replicate Elizabeth’s accomplishments, and she was furious about it. Not apologetic, not remorseful, not even particularly concerned about the consequences. Simply angry that Elizabeth had managed to create this situation.
Elizabeth’s fingers continued to tremble as they approached the final few steps. This would be their first opportunity to speak privately since the body swap, the first moment without the entire company of Rosings observing their interactions. Elizabeth’s mind raced with possibilities, with questions that demanded answers. How had Anne done this? How could it be reversed? What did Anne intend now?
But beneath those practical considerations ran a deeper current of violation. Anne had stolen her body, her life, her very identity, and she had done it with calculated precision. Anne had been willing to trap Elizabeth in this feeble body, to condemn her to suffer while she enjoyed health and freedom, and she felt no apparent remorse.
The pianoforte bench sat between them, dark wood padded with burgundy velvet. It was designed to accommodate a single player, perhaps with space for someone to sit close and turn pages, but not truly large enough for two people to sit comfortably side by side. They would have to press together, share space, maintain the fiction of a music lesson whileconducting a confrontation that could determine Elizabeth’s entire future.
Behind them, the murmur of conversation continued, Lady Catherine’s voice rising and falling with its characteristic authority, Mr. Collins’s occasional interjections of agreement punctuating the flow. They were far enough away now that quiet conversation at the pianoforte would not be overheard, close enough that any raised voices would immediately draw attention.
Elizabeth drew a careful breath, steeling herself. Anne’s expression had settled into something cold and hard, fury evident in every line of her stolen face. They stood on opposite sides of the bench, the instrument before them a battlefield, the pristine keys waiting to expose one lie while concealing another.
Elizabeth reached for the bench with one trembling hand, preparing to lower herself onto its surface. Anne moved simultaneously, her stolen body responding with the strength and coordination Elizabeth had taken for granted, both women reaching for the same narrow seat.
Their hands touched the velvet padding at nearly the same moment, Elizabeth’s pale fingers and Anne’s healthy ones meeting on the burgundy surface. Elizabeth looked up, met Anne’s gaze directly for the first time since recognising the truth, and saw her own eyes staring back at her filled with an anger that took her breath away.
Chapter Ten
Theysettledontothebench together, the narrow seat forcing them closer than Elizabeth could bear, Anne’s stolen shoulder pressing against hers with casual familiarity that felt like violation. Elizabeth’s borrowed hands trembled as she placed them on the smooth ivory keys, Anne’s fingers lacking the strength and dexterity Elizabeth had always taken for granted.
The parlour behind them hummed with conversation, Lady Catherine’s voice rising and falling with its characteristic authority, punctuated by Mr. Collins’s obsequious agreements. Elizabeth could feel Darcy’s gaze on her back still, but she forced herself to ignore it. She must do something, must keep up the appearances of being given instruction, lest Lady Catherine grew impatient with the silence.
Elizabeth pressed down on middle C, the note ringing out clear. Her finger trembled against the key, Anne’s bodybetraying her even in this simple gesture, but the sound carried well enough. She moved to the next note, then the next, building a simple ascending scale. The repetition created a rhythmic pattern, each note distinct but the overall effect monotonous enough that the company behind them would lose interest quickly.
Under the cover of that simple music, Elizabeth leaned slightly closer to Anne and spoke, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Why did you do this?”
Anne’s stolen hands remained folded in her lap, and she did not look at Elizabeth directly, keeping her gaze fixed on the keys. But Elizabeth saw her own mouth curve into a smile, an expression of scornful amusement that Elizabeth had never worn. That looked utterly wrong on her face.
“Why?” Anne’s voice emerged just as quietly. “Because you had everything and you were wasting it.”
Elizabeth’s fingers faltered on the keys, striking B when she meant to hit C, the wrong note jarring. She forced herself to continue, to repeat the scale, to maintain the pretence.
“Everything,” Anne continued, and her tone carried genuine bitterness beneath the mockery. “Health. Strength. The ability to walk across a room without trembling, to climb stairs without gasping for breath, to move through the world without being treated like fragile porcelain.” She paused, and when she spoke again, her voice had dropped even lower. “You had a body that worked, Lizzy. And you took it entirely for granted.”
The use of Elizabeth’s familiar name from her own mouth felt obscene, a violation beyond even the theft of her body. Elizabeth’s hands shook harder, making the next attempt at the scale emerge choppy and uneven.
“That does not give you the right,” Elizabeth whispered fiercely.
Anne laughed, the sound emerging quiet and cruel. “Right? What is right, except what power allows? I had the knowledge, the skill, the determination to take what I needed.” She turned her head slightly, just enough that Elizabeth could see the profile of her own face. “I saw my opportunity and I seized it. That is all there is to right and wrong in this world.”
Elizabeth’s stomach turned at the casual callousness, at the complete absence of remorse. Anne spoke of theft and deception as though they were merely practical decisions, as though Elizabeth’s suffering meant nothing weighed against Anne’s desires.
She forced her fingers back to the keys, starting the scale again with deliberate slowness. Her mind raced even as her borrowed body struggled. She needed Anne to keep talking, needed to understand the full scope of what had been done to her and why.
“You could have had any number of bodies, I think,” Elizabeth said, keeping her voice steady with effort. “Why mine specifically? What did I do to earn your particular hatred?”
“Hatred?” Anne’s laugh came again, that same quiet cruelty. “I do not hate you, Lizzy. I pity you. All that beauty and vivacity, all that wit and charm, and you were too blind to see what was right in front of you.”
