Mrs. Jenkinson set down her needlework with visible reluctance, her gaze moving immediately to Elizabeth. “I shall return shortly, Miss de Bourgh. Do not overtax yourself while I am gone.”
Elizabeth nodded with what she hoped was appropriate meekness, watching as the companion rose and followed the servant from the room. The door closed behind them with a soft click, and Elizabeth counted to ten before pushing herself to her feet. Her legs trembled with the effort of standing upright without support, but she forced them to carry her toward the French doors.
The handles felt cold beneath her palms, the brass smooth from years of polishing. Elizabeth turned them slowly, easing the doors open just enough to slip through the gap. The afternoon air struck her face with surprising warmth after the drawing room’s stuffy interior, carrying scents of growing things and fresh earth that made her lungs ache with the desire to breathe deeply.
She stepped onto the terrace, pulling the doors closed behind her with careful quiet. Elizabeth paused there for a moment, scanning the windows above for any sign of observers. The glass reflected only sky and clouds, showing no faces watching her escape.
The lawn stretched before her, deceptively smooth in the afternoon light. Elizabeth began walking, each step requiring deliberate concentration. Anne’s body responded to her commands with sluggish reluctance, muscles protesting movement after hours of stillness. Elizabeth focused on her goal, ignoring the way her heart hammered against weak ribs.
There was little cover on the first part of her route, a stretch of open lawn that left her exposed to view from any of Rosings’ many windows. She needed to hurry, but she could not, could only walk slowly, focussing on placing one foot in front of the other. Halfway across, her legs began to shake with genuine weakness. The trembling started in her thighs and spread downward, making each step uncertain.
Elizabeth stumbled, catching herself before she fell entirely. Her vision swam slightly, Anne’s weak eyes struggling to focus through exhaustion. She stood there swaying, the parsonage still not even within sight, and felt despair rise in her throat. What if she could not make it? What if Anne’s body gave out entirely before she reached Jane?
She reached the gap in the trees at last and stumbled between it, looking back over her shoulder towards the house. Rosings slumbered in the afternoon sun, looking somehow ominous despite the brightness of the day, but Elizabeth could see no signs of pursuit. Determinedly, she looked away and walked on, though she knew she would need to stop and rest soon, lest she be unable to complete her journey.
A decorative stone bench appeared through her blurred vision, positioned beneath a spreading oak tree. Elizabeth altered hercourse toward it, using the last of her strength to reach the seat before her legs collapsed entirely. She sank onto the cold stone with a gasp of relief, her chest heaving with the effort of drawing breath. Sweat dampened her hairline despite the moderate temperature, and her hands shook visibly where they gripped the bench’s edge.
Minutes passed while Elizabeth sat there, forcing Anne’s damaged lungs to work, willing strength back into trembling muscles. Finally, she pushed herself upright again, using the bench for support, aware that she dared not wait too long lest Mrs. Jenkinson come searching for her. Her legs felt marginally steadier now, though they still trembled with the threat of collapse. She took one step, then another, finding a rhythm that Anne’s body could maintain. Slow. Painfully slow. But forward.
She reached the parsonage at last, the garden’s humble beds and borders so different from Rosings’ formal grandeur. The rose bushes formed a natural screen near the parlour window, offering concealment. Thorns caught immediately in her dress as she stepped close, the fine muslin Anne typically wore proving far less durable than Elizabeth’s own practical gowns. She felt the fabric tear, heard the soft ripping sound, but could not bring herself to care about damage to Anne’s clothing.
She arranged herself as comfortably as possible among the bushes, ignoring the thorns that pressed through thin fabric to prick her arms and back and leaning one shoulder against the wall for support. From this position, she could see directly into the parlour, though at an acute angle. Charlotte sat in her usual chair, her hands busy with some mending. Mr. Collins moved through Elizabeth’s line of sight periodically, his heavy form instantly recognisable even in silhouette.
But no Jane. Elizabeth’s heart sank with each passing minute that failed to produce her sister’s beloved figure. Where was she? Had she gone upstairs to rest? Had she walked out to the villagewith her impostor sister, all unaware that Anne had stolen Elizabeth’s face and body? The uncertainty made Elizabeth want to weep with frustration.
Time stretched like honey dripping from a spoon, each minute feeling like an hour. Elizabeth’s legs ached from her awkward position among the roses. The thorns dug deeper as she settled into the branches’ embrace. Her back burned where fabric had torn and sharp points pressed against skin. But she did not move. Could not move. Had come too far to abandon her position now simply because of discomfort; and besides, the thought of walking back to Rosings alone was utterly daunting.
Charlotte rose and left the parlour, her form disappearing into the house’s interior. Mr. Collins remained briefly, then followed his wife, leaving the room empty. Elizabeth stared at the vacant space through the window, her eyes burning with the intensity of her focus.
Then Jane appeared. She entered the parlour alone, moving with the quiet grace Elizabeth recognized so well. Her fair hair caught the afternoon light streaming through the window, and her face showed that familiar expression of gentle contentment as she settled into a chair. She picked up a book from the side table, opening it to a marked page.
Alone. Jane was blessedly alone.
Elizabeth’s fingers trembled as they made contact with the cool glass. She scratched at the window, the sound barely audible even to her own ears. Once. Twice. Jane did not look up, her attention fixed on the book in her lap. Elizabeth scratched harder, her fingernails making sharper sounds against the glass. Panic rose in her throat. What if Jane did not hear? What if this moment passed and Elizabeth lost her chance?
Jane’s head lifted, her expression shifting from peaceful reading to curious alertness. Her gaze moved toward the window, searching for the source of the sound. Elizabethscratched again, more desperately now, and beckoned with her free hand.
Their eyes met through the glass. Jane stared at the pale, frail woman gesturing frantically outside her window, her lovely face showing polite confusion. She rose from her chair and moved toward the window, her steps cautious, clearly uncertain about this strange visitor.
Elizabeth pressed her palm flat against the glass and continued beckoning, making urgent gestures that probably looked like madness to Jane’s eyes. But Jane kept coming, kept moving toward the window, and that was all that mattered.
Jane reached the window and paused there, one hand resting on the frame, studying the stranger outside with an expression that mixed concern with wariness. Her lovely face showed no recognition, no spark of understanding, only polite confusion at finding a pale, frail woman crouched among the rose bushes. Elizabeth’s throat closed around words that suddenly seemed impossible to speak.
The window opened with a soft creak, and Jane leaned out slightly, her voice carrying quiet courtesy. “May I help you? Are you unwell?”
“Please,” Elizabeth whispered, and the word emerged raw with desperation she could not contain. “I must speak with you. Alone. It’s of the utmost importance.”
Jane’s eyebrows rose slightly, polite confusion deepening into something more cautious. “I am afraid I do not understand. Have we been introduced? I do not believe I know you.”
“Please, Jane,” Elizabeth said, and tears gathered in her eyes despite her efforts at control. “I beg you. Come outside. I’ll explain everything. But I need to speak with you alone. Please.”
The use of her Christian name made Jane stiffen visibly, her hand tightening on the window frame. She glanced back into the parlour behind her, clearly searching for Charlotte or herhusband, some adult who might explain this strange situation. When she looked back at Elizabeth, her expression had shifted from to one of genuine alarm.
“How do you know my name?” Jane asked, her soft voice carrying an edge Elizabeth had rarely heard. “Who are you?”
“I cannot explain here,” Elizabeth managed, fighting against the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her. “Please, Jane. I know how this appears. I know I sound completely mad. But I am begging you. Come outside and speak with me for just a few minutes. If you wish to leave after hearing what I have to say, I will not stop you. I will never trouble you again. But please, please give me this chance.”
Jane stood frozen in the open window, her lovely face reflecting internal struggle. Elizabeth watched the emotions play across features she knew better than her own, watched Jane’s natural compassion war with proper caution about speaking privately with strange women who knew her name without introduction. Jane’s teeth caught her lower lip, worrying at it in the unconscious gesture she always made when thinking hard about something difficult.
