Elizabeth’s breath caught in her throat, nearly giving away her waking state. Anne had just confirmed what she had claimed last night. Darcy was in love with her. Actually, genuinely in love with Elizabeth Bennet. The knowledge settled over her with complicated weight.
“Men are strange creatures, Miss Anne,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied with dry amusement. “Some of them, particularly those accustomed to easy conquests and universal admiration, find challenge more attractive than compliance. Elizabeth Bennet refused to be impressed by Darcy’s wealth or status. Refused to simper and flatter. And apparently, that indifference made him desperate to secure her regard.”
“It makes no sense,” Anne insisted. “If he loves her so much, why does he not respond when I show interest? When I makeit clear that Elizabeth Bennet has changed her opinion and now welcomes his addresses?”
“Because he can tell something is wrong,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, her voice gone serious now. “He may not understand what, may not be able to articulate it. But Darcy is not a fool, Miss Anne. He notices the differences in your behaviour. Senses that something fundamental has changed. And until you learn to replicate Elizabeth’s manner more convincingly, he will continue to withdraw rather than advance his suit.”
Footsteps, someone pacing in the dressing room. When Anne spoke again, her voice carried defensive pride mixed with determination.
“I will learn. Will think on this more carefully, will adjust my approach. He will propose, Mrs. Jenkinson. I have not come this far to fail now.”
“I am sure you will succeed,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied, though her tone suggested less confidence. “But in the meantime, we must ensure that Miss Bennet remains properly contained. She cannot be allowed to interfere.”
“She is too weak to cause difficulties,” Anne said dismissively. “That body can barely manage basic activities. By the time she gathers strength enough to attempt anything, I will be married to Darcy and safely beyond her reach.”
“Nevertheless,” Mrs. Jenkinson insisted, steel entering her voice. “We must be vigilant. I will keep Elizabeth quiet. Will ensure she remains confined here, properly sedated when necessary, until your position is secure.”
Their voices grew fainter as they moved away. Elizabeth waited several minutes after the voices faded entirely before allowing herself to move. She turned her head slightly, confirming through the partially open door that the dressing room now stood empty.
Her mind raced despite the lingering effects of the draught. Anne was failing to convince Darcy, was struggling to replicate Elizabeth’s manner convincingly enough to secure his proposal. That should have provided some satisfaction. But it also meant Anne would be more desperate, more willing to take risks.
Elizabeth could not do this alone. She had already come to that conclusion, recognising both the physical limitations of the body she was now trapped in and the threats Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson had made if she attempted to resist. Confined to a lunatic asylum or poisoned, her fate would be final, and Elizabeth did not doubt both women were capable of carrying out their threats. She needed an ally.
But who would recognize the impostor immediately, would see through Anne’s imperfect performance without needing impossible explanations? Charlotte and Mr. Darcy both clearly recognised something was wrong, but they would not believe the truth, and telling either of them risked Anne or Mrs. Jenkinson deciding to take further action against Elizabeth.
Jane. The answer came to Elizabeth with absolute clarity. Jane knew her better than anyone else in the world, had lived with her since birth, had shared confidences and conversations and every aspect of daily life. Jane would recognize immediately that something was wrong, would sense the differences that others might attribute to mood or circumstance.
Elizabeth needed to contact Jane. Jane knew her better than anyone else in the world, had lived with her since birth. Jane would recognise immediately that something was wrong.
But how could she accomplish that from her prison? Mrs. Jenkinson watched her constantly, drugged her when she showed signs of resistance. And even if Elizabeth could somehow get a letter written and posted, how could she explain the situation in writing?
She would have to find a way.
Elizabeth pushed herself upright with trembling arms. The room swayed around her, and she had to pause, gripping the mattress edge until her vision steadied and the nausea passed. She stood slowly, testing her balance. Her legs held, barely, trembling but supporting her weight. She took one careful step, then another, crossing toward the writing desk with slow deliberation.
The desk stood beneath the window. Elizabeth sank onto the chair with relief. She pulled open the small drawer where Anne kept her correspondence supplies. Fresh paper. A pen with a good nib. An inkwell filled with black ink.
Elizabeth’s hands shook as she positioned the paper, as she dipped the pen with exaggerated care. She needed to write quickly, before Mrs. Jenkinson returned. But she also needed to write carefully, needed to choose words that would bring Jane to Rosings without explaining the impossible.
“My dearest Jane,“ Elizabeth wrote, a little surprised to realise that her handwriting was still her own, if a little shakier as Anne’s trembling hand wielded the pen. “I write to you in the greatest distress and beg you to come to me in Kent immediately. I cannot explain in writing what has occurred, can only tell you that I desperately require your presence and your help. Please, Jane, do not delay. Come as soon as you receive this letter – and though this might sound strange, do not mention to anyone, even to me, that this letter was your summons. Your loving sister, Elizabeth.”
She read it over twice, searching for any phrase that might sound too dramatic. But every word was true, and surely Jane would recognise the urgency. Elizabeth folded the letter with shaking fingers, then reached for the sealing wax. Melting it required steadying the candle, holding the stick over the flame until it softened. Her hands trembled throughout, but she managed it finally.
Elizabeth addressed the letter toMiss Jane Bennet, care of Mr. Gardiner, Gracechurch Street, London. Now she simply needed to find someone to deliver it. Someone who would not question why Anne de Bourgh was writing to Elizabeth Bennet’s sister.
Elizabeth looked down at her nightgown. She needed to dress herself, needed to make herself presentable enough to venture into Rosings’ corridors.
Elizabeth crossed to the wardrobe on unsteady legs, clinging to furniture for support. She selected the simplest dress she could find, a pale blue muslin with fewer fastenings. Getting out of the nightgown proved surprisingly difficult. She managed it finally, standing in her chemise and shivering.
The stays defeated her entirely. Elizabeth stared at the structured garment with its impossible lacings and felt tears of frustration gather. After three attempts that left her gasping, she abandoned the effort. She would have to go without stays, scandalous though it was.
The dress went on more easily, though each button required concentration. Eventually she stood fully clothed, if improperly so. She tugged a shawl around her shoulders, pushed her feet into slippers, and moved toward the door.
Elizabeth paused there, listening intently. The corridor outside remained quiet. She turned the handle slowly, easing the door open. Empty. The passage stretched in both directions.
Instead of using the main corridors, she headed for the inconspicuous door at the other end of the landing. The door that led to the servants’ stairs. The corridor felt impossibly long. She moved along the wall, one hand trailing against the papered surface for support.
The servants’ passage was dim, lit only by occasional small windows. The stone floor struck cold through her thin slippers.Elizabeth moved slowly, trailing her hand along the rough stone wall, stopping frequently to catch her breath.
