She reached up with her free hand and placed it on his chest, her palm resting just above his heart in a gesture that exceeded every boundary of propriety. The touch was bold, deliberate, unmistakably forward.
Darcy froze, every muscle going rigid with shock. This was not merely uncharacteristic behaviour. This was something else entirely, something that bore no resemblance whatsoever to Elizabeth Bennet’s natural manner. Elizabeth would never touch him so boldly, would never employ such obvious flirtation techniques, would never bat her eyelashes like some silly debutante trying to captivate a wealthy suitor.
“Miss Bennet,” Darcy managed, his voice emerging rougher than he intended. “I think perhaps you have misunderstood my meaning.”
But she only smiled wider, her fingers curling slightly against his waistcoat as though claiming possession. “Oh, I understand perfectly, Mr. Darcy. You wish to admire me. And I am most happy to be admired by you.”
The words were wrong. The tone was wrong. The entire manner of delivery was so fundamentally unlike Elizabeth that Darcy felt as though he were speaking with a stranger.
Elizabeth did not seek admiration. Did not angle for compliments or employ obvious flirtation. When she engaged with someone, she did so with genuine interest and sharp intelligence, with conversation that challenged and provoked rather than simpering agreement. Even when she disliked someone, her engagement carried more substance than this hollow performance.
Darcy carefully removed her hand from his chest, holding it briefly before releasing it entirely and taking a definitive step backward. Elizabeth’s expression flickered with something thatmight have been irritation before settling back into that inviting smile, but she did not pursue him, did not press her advantage.
“I believe perhaps we should rejoin the others,” Darcy said, his mind racing. “My aunt will notice our prolonged absence.”
Elizabeth’s smile faltered slightly, but she nodded and allowed him to guide her back toward the centre of the parlour where Lady Catherine held court. As they walked, Darcy’s thoughts turned over the evidence that had been accumulating throughout this impossible day.
Elizabeth’s apparent lack of anger about his interference with Bingley and her sister. Her coldness toward Fitzwilliam when she had always enjoyed his company. Her meek submission to Collins’s pompous authority. Her pleasant warmth toward Darcy himself despite having every reason to despise him. Her complete unconcern about Anne’s obvious distress. Her forward behaviour and calculated flirtation. And now, her complete failure to recognise a reference to a conversation they had shared mere months ago.
Stranger and stranger, Darcy thought, utterly confused as to what might possibly have happened to cause such a fundamental change in character.
Chapter Twelve
Thestairsseemedendless,each step requiring calculation and effort that Elizabeth’s healthy body would have managed without thought. Mrs. Jenkinson’s grip on her elbow was firm, almost painful, guiding her upward steadily. Elizabeth’s legs trembled with the exertion, and by the time they reached the landing, sweat had gathered at her temples despite the evening’s coolness. Her vision swam slightly at the edges, exhaustion pulling at her consciousness.
They moved through the darkened corridor in silence, the only sounds their footsteps against polished wood and Elizabeth’s laboured breathing. Candles flickered in wall sconces, throwing shadows that seemed to reach for them as they passed. Elizabeth tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, on not collapsing before they reached Anne’s bedchamber.
The door to Anne’s room stood open, and Mrs. Jenkinson guided her through with that same firm grip. The bedchamber felt suffocating after the relative openness of the parlour, all heavy curtains and ornate furniture arranged to showcase wealth rather than provide comfort.
Mrs. Jenkinson released Elizabeth’s elbow only to begin working at the fastenings of the green silk gown, her fingers deft despite their age. Elizabeth stood swaying slightly, too exhausted to protest the intimacy, too weak to manage the task herself. The silk whispered as it fell away, pooling at her feet.
The stays came next, efficiently unlaced, and Elizabeth gasped as the pressure released from Anne’s weak chest. She had not realised how much the garment had been restricting her already compromised breathing. Her chemise clung to her skin, damp with perspiration, and she shivered in the room’s relative coolness.
“Arms up,” Mrs. Jenkinson instructed, her tone carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question.
Elizabeth raised her arms with effort, and the nightgown descended over her head, soft cotton settling against her skin. It smelled of lavender and something medicinal. Mrs. Jenkinson guided her toward the bed, one hand at her back, and Elizabeth’s legs nearly gave out during the final steps.
The mattress received her softly, goose-down feathers compressing beneath her slight weight. Mrs. Jenkinson lifted Elizabeth’s legs onto the bed, then moved to adjust the pillows behind her back. Elizabeth found herself propped into a semi-sitting position, too tired to question the arrangement.
Mrs. Jenkinson crossed to the dresser and selected a vial, uncorked it, and poured a measure of dark liquid into a glass. The smell reached Elizabeth even from several feet away, bitter and sharp with an underlying sweetness.
“You need to sleep,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, returning to the bedside with the glass extended. “This will help.”
Elizabeth stared at the offered draught, her exhausted mind struggling to assess the danger. She had been drugged before by this woman, had lost hours to unconsciousness. Every instinct screamed against accepting anything from Mrs. Jenkinson’s hand, against surrendering control.
But what choice did she have? Her borrowed body could barely remain upright. If she refused, Mrs. Jenkinson would simply force the draught down her throat as she had done before. At least accepting it with apparent cooperation might maintain some illusion of dignity.
Elizabeth reached for the glass with trembling fingers. The glass felt heavy in her weak grip. She raised it to her lips and drank, the bitter taste coating her tongue and throat despite her attempts to swallow quickly. She grimaced at the flavour, at the chalky texture that clung to her mouth.
Mrs. Jenkinson retrieved the empty glass and set it aside, then settled into the chair beside the bed. She folded her hands in her lap, preparing to wait until the draught took effect.
“Why do you help her?” Elizabeth asked, the words emerging slightly slurred as the draught began its work. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, her thoughts starting to scatter. “You know what she has done. Know it is wrong.”
Mrs. Jenkinson’s expression remained neutral, but something flickered in her eyes. Guilt, perhaps, or the memory of guilt long since suppressed. “Miss Anne needed assistance. I have served the de Bourgh family for forty years, companion to Sir Lewis’s mother before she died, then his bride, now his daughter. Where else would my loyalty lie?”
“With what is right,” Elizabeth managed, though her voice had grown softer. “Not with wickedness.”
“Right and wrong are luxuries for those who can afford them,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied, and her tone carried weary resignation. “I am a woman alone in the world, Miss Bennet. My position here is all that stands between me and destitution. Do you imagine I could refuse Miss Anne’s requests, however extraordinary, and remain employed?”
