The admission struck Elizabeth with unexpected force. Mrs. Jenkinson was trapped too, in her own way, bound by economic necessity to serve a woman whose actions she might not approve but could not afford to oppose. It did not excuse her participation, did not make her complicity any less reprehensible, but it added complexity to Elizabeth’s understanding.
“She learned it from her father,” Mrs. Jenkinson continued, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper. “Sir Lewis de Bourgh. He was a gentleman scholar, interested in natural philosophy and alchemy. Spent years studying ancient texts, collecting rare ingredients, experimenting with formulations that most would dismiss as superstition.”
Elizabeth tried to focus on the words, to commit them to memory despite the growing fog in her thoughts. This was important information.
“His experiments weakened Miss Anne’s body,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, and genuine sorrow coloured her tone now. “She would help him in his laboratory, would breathe the vapours from his distillations, would handle ingredients that left residues on her skin. The damage accumulated over years. By the time Sir Lewis realised what was happening, it was too late for both of them.”
“He died from it,” Elizabeth said, the words emerging slow and heavy. “Anne said he died from the same ingredients that weakened her.”
Mrs. Jenkinson nodded, her expression grave. “Coughing up blood in his final months. Unable to breathe without pain. The chemicals had destroyed his lungs, poisoned his blood. And Miss Anne’s constitution, already delicate from birth, suffered similar damage. She has been dying slowly ever since, trapped in a body that fails her more with each passing year.”
The explanation should have inspired sympathy, Elizabeth thought distantly. Should have made her understand Anne’s desperation. But Elizabeth could summon no compassion for the woman who had violated her so completely.
“She could have chosen differently,” Elizabeth whispered. “Could have lived what life she had with honour rather than theft.”
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Jenkinson agreed quietly. “But desperation makes monsters of us all, Miss Bennet. When facing death, few of us prove as noble as we imagine we would be.”
Elizabeth wanted to argue, wanted to insist that some principles transcended even the fear of death. But the words would not come, her thoughts scattering further as the draught pulled her toward unconsciousness. Her eyelids had grown impossibly heavy, her limbs weighted with exhaustion.
The room began to blur at the edges. She could still see Mrs. Jenkinson’s face, still registered the woman’s steady watchfulness, but everything else faded into shadow. The ornate ceiling plasterwork became abstract patterns that shifted and flowed. The candlelight wavered and dimmed.
Elizabeth tried to fight the draught’s effects, tried to hold onto consciousness through sheer determination. But Anne’s body, already exhausted beyond its capacity, surrendered to the drug with the ease of long practice. Her muscles relaxed despite her will, her breathing deepened and slowed, her thoughts scattered beyond her ability to gather them.
Then there was only darkness, heavy and absolute.
Consciousness returned reluctantly, dragging Elizabeth up through layers of heavy darkness. Her mouth tasted of ashes and chemicals, the bitter residue coating her tongue and throat. Her head ached with a dull, persistent throb, and her borrowed body felt simultaneously leaden and insubstantial. The morning light filtering through the heavy curtains struck her as unnecessarily bright, painful when she opened her eyes.
Elizabeth closed her eyes again and lay still, not yet ready to acknowledge waking. The bed felt too soft beneath her, the linens too fine. Her lungs drew shallow breaths that never quite satisfied.
Voices penetrated her consciousness. Low, coming from nearby. Elizabeth’s eyes opened to slits, careful not to move or give any sign of waking. The voices came from the dressing room, she realised, the door standing partially ajar.
Anne’s voice, using Elizabeth’s familiar tones but speaking with frustration. “I do not understand what I am doing wrong. I smiled at him. I touched his arm. I stood close to him and made it clear I welcomed his attention. Yet Darcy looked at me as though I were some sort of curiosity rather than a woman expressing interest.”
Mrs. Jenkinson’s response came after a pause. “Perhaps you are being too obvious, Miss Anne. Too forward in your approach.”
“Too forward?” Anne’s voice rose slightly before she apparently remembered to keep her volume down. “How can I be too forward when every conduct book insists that youngladies must encourage the gentleman’s addresses? That we must show our approval through warmth and compliance?”
“There is a difference between showing approval and throwing yourself at him,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied, and Elizabeth detected a hint of dry amusement. “Darcy does not seem responsive to your efforts at all.”
Elizabeth’s heart hammered against her ribs, each beat painful in Anne’s weak chest. They were discussing Darcy, discussing Anne’s attempts to secure his interest. She forced herself to remain perfectly still, to keep her breathing shallow and even. This was information she desperately needed.
“That is precisely my complaint,” Anne said, her frustration evident. “I have been as warm and encouraging as propriety allows. More so, perhaps. Yet he withdraws rather than responding with equal enthusiasm. Last night when I touched his chest, he actually stepped away. Removed my hand as though it had burned him.”
“That is because Elizabeth Bennet never flirted with him,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, and now the amusement in her voice was unmistakable. “She teased him.”
Silence greeted this pronouncement. Through her slitted eyes, Elizabeth watched the shadows shift as one of the women moved.
“I do not understand the distinction,” Anne said finally, genuine bewilderment colouring her voice. “How is teasing different from flirting? Both seek to attract male attention, do they not?”
“Flirting is obvious,” Mrs. Jenkinson explained with patience. “It announces itself clearly. Compliments delivered with significance. Touches that linger. Smiles designed to captivate. Batting eyelashes and breathy voices and all the obvious manoeuvres young ladies employ.”
“Yes,” Anne agreed impatiently. “That is precisely what I have been doing.”
“And teasing,” Mrs. Jenkinson continued, “is something else entirely. It challenges rather than compliments. It provokes rather than soothes. It creates tension through opposition rather than harmony through agreement. Elizabeth Bennet was not trying to make Darcy like her. She was trying to make him think, to respond, to engage with her as an equal rather than as a pretty object to be admired.”
The explanation struck Elizabeth with unexpected force. Was that what she had been doing? She had thought herself simply defending her independence, refusing to accommodate Darcy’s pride. Had not realised that her challenges and verbal sparring might be interpreted as a form of attraction.
“But why would that make him love her?” Anne’s voice carried genuine confusion. “I do not understand why Darcy would fall in love with a woman who does not even like him. Who challenged him constantly and refused to show him proper deference.”
