“Miss Jane Bennet was quite a pleasure to spend the afternoon with,” the Colonel added, and something in his tone suggested more than mere politeness. A warmth that went beyond simple courtesy. “Remarkably composed and intelligent. The conversation during our journey was most agreeable.”
Despite everything, Elizabeth felt a smile tug at her lips. Of course Jane would have charmed him through simple kindness. Of course the Colonel would have found her delightful company.
“She is the best of women,” Elizabeth said, and this at least was truth she could speak without reservation. “The dearest sister anyone could wish for.” Quickly, she added, “Everything Elizabeth Bennet has told me, has convinced me of that.”
The Colonel nodded, his expression showing agreement. “You need not thank me for helping you reach her. It was a small thing.”
“Not small to me,” Elizabeth whispered, and tears threatened again. “Colonel Fitzwilliam, you cannot know how much this means.”
“Anne,” he said, and his voice had gone very gentle. “You have never asked me for anything in your life. In all our years as cousins, you have never requested my assistance. When you came to me this morning, desperate enough to fall to your knees and beg, I knew it must be for something of vital importance.”
He paused, reaching out to steady her as she swayed. His hand remained on her elbow.
“It was a small thing that I could do for you,” he continued. “And I hope you will not hesitate to ask if there is anything else I may do to assist you. Whatever trouble you find yourself in, I am at your disposal.”
The offer hung between them, sincere and absolute. Elizabeth stared up at him and felt the weight of choice pressing down. Shecould tell him now. Could risk everything on the hope that he would believe her. Could finally have an ally who knew what had been done to her.
But what if he did not believe her? What if his kindness transformed into horrified conviction that his cousin had lost her mind?
Elizabeth could not risk it. Not yet. Not when Jane had finally arrived, when she had the beginning of a plan that might work without requiring anyone to accept the impossible.
“Thank you,” Elizabeth said, and she poured all her genuine gratitude into the words. “Your help means more than I can express. But there is nothing else I need from you at present.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam studied her face for a long moment. Whatever he saw seemed to satisfy him, because he nodded and stepped back.
“Very well,” he said. “But remember, Anne. Whatever you need. Whatever assistance you require. You have only to ask.”
Elizabeth nodded, not trusting her voice to remain steady. The Colonel executed a small bow, then turned and walked down the corridor, his footsteps fading until she stood alone.
Elizabeth remained there for several minutes, leaning against the cool stone wall, letting her borrowed body rest while her mind raced. Jane was here. Her dearest Jane, who knew her better than anyone else in the world, who would recognise immediately that something was desperately wrong with the woman claiming to be Elizabeth Bennet. Jane would see through Anne’s imperfect performance. Would understand without needing impossible explanations. Would help Elizabeth find a way to reverse this nightmare.
Elizabeth pushed herself away from the wall and began the slow journey down the corridor toward Anne’s chamber. Her borrowed legs trembled with each step, exhaustion pulling at herconsciousness. But beneath the weariness, beneath the pain and weakness, hope burned with steady determination.
Jane was here.
Chapter Fifteen
ThedoortoAnne’schamber closed behind Elizabeth with a soft click that seemed unnaturally loud in the silence. She stood for a moment with her back pressed against the wood, listening intently for any sound of footsteps in the corridor beyond. Mrs. Jenkinson might come up at any moment, might decide that she required supervision despite Lady Catherine’s insistence on being entertained. But the passage remained quiet, only the distant murmur of voices from below stairs and the settling creaks of an old house preparing for night.
Elizabeth pushed herself away from the door and crossed the room with unsteady steps, her borrowed legs trembling with exhaustion. Tonight, for the first time since waking in this nightmare, she had something. Jane was here. Not at her side, not yet, but close enough that hope felt almost tangible.
And she had the journal.
Elizabeth knelt beside the bed with effort, her weak knees protesting the movement. She reached beneath the mattress, her fingers searching through the space between feather tick and bed frame until they encountered the leather binding she had hidden there. The journal felt heavier than she remembered as she pulled it free, its weight substantial in her frail hands. Dark brown leather, worn smooth at the edges from years of handling, with no title or decoration to indicate its contents save the de Bourgh family crest embossed on the lower corner. Someone glancing over it would think it an accounts book or personal diary, nothing worthy of particular notice.
Elizabeth climbed onto the bed and arranged herself against the pillows, propping the journal on her lap. Her lungs laboured with even this small exertion, Anne’s damaged chest rising and falling with shallow breaths that never quite satisfied. She positioned the candlestick on the bedside table, angling it to cast the most light possible across the pages, then opened the journal.
Anne’s handwriting sprawled across the first page in cramped, dense lines that made Elizabeth’s eyes ache trying to decipher them. The script was small, precise, each letter formed with care despite the overall impression of words crowded together as though space were precious. Elizabeth squinted in the candlelight, tracing the first entry with one finger.
A recipe. That much was clear from the format, ingredients listed in careful order followed by instructions for preparation. But the components themselves made Elizabeth’s brow furrow in confusion. Rose petals dried under a full moon. Spring water collected at dawn. Honey from bees that had fed only on lavender. Her first instinct was to dismiss it as fanciful nonsense, the sort of superstitious remedies country folk might trade among themselves without any real effect.
But Anne had not collected superstitious remedies. Anne had practiced witchcraft. Had successfully swapped their bodies using magic that Elizabeth had experienced first-hand. These recipes were not harmless folk wisdom. They were real.
Elizabeth turned the page, finding another recipe. Then another. Each one detailed preparations and ingredients that grew progressively stranger. Powdered moonstone. The rendered fat of a black cat. Hair from a virgin bride. Some entries included notes in the margins, observations about potency or effectiveness that suggested Anne had tested these formulations, had used them for purposes Elizabeth could only guess at.
Her finger paused on an entry near the middle of the journal. The ingredients were less exotic than some of the others but still unusual. Rose petals again, but these preserved in brandy. Crushed pearls mixed with honey. Extract of damask rose. Vervain gathered at midnight. And at the bottom, in slightly larger script as though Anne had wanted to emphasise its importance: One drop of blood from each party, mixed under a new moon.
Elizabeth read the instructions that followed, her heart beginning to hammer against her ribs. A potion to inspire lasting devotion. To make the drinker unable to consider any other romantic attachment. To bind their affections completely to the one who had administered it.
