“I am well,” Elizabeth managed, though her voice emerged thin and unconvincing. “I simply... Friday seems very soon.”
Lady Matlock’s expression transformed, concern giving way to what looked remarkably like sympathy. She settled back and reached across to pat Elizabeth’s hand.
“Of course it seems soon, dear child,” Lady Matlock said. “You are thinking of your cousin, of the expectations everyone had about your future. And now you must watch him marry another woman. It must be very difficult.”
The compassion in Lady Matlock’s voice struck Elizabeth like a physical blow. She was so kind, so genuinely concerned for what she believed was Anne’s heartbreak.
“Such a short engagement,” Lady Matlock continued. “But I suppose when two people are in love, delay seems unnecessary. Still, it leaves very little time for proper preparations.”
Lord Matlock cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “Yes, well. I simply wanted to inform you of the arrangements. Darcy will be calling tomorrow morning to discuss some final details, and I believe he mentioned wanting to see Anne as well.”
Elizabeth’s throat closed around words she could not speak. Darcy would be here tomorrow. Would see her wearing Anne’s face and body. The wrongness of it made her stomach turn.
“How thoughtful,” Elizabeth forced herself to say. “I look forward to seeing my cousin.”
Lord Matlock nodded with visible relief, clearly pleased to escape. “Excellent. I will leave you ladies to your tea, then.”
He left swiftly, the door closing with a soft click.
Lady Matlock watched Elizabeth with continued concern. “You really do look unwell, Anne. Perhaps you should rest.”
“I am well enough,” Elizabeth protested feebly.
A soft knock interrupted. The door opened to reveal Mrs. Jenkinson, her timing so precise that Elizabeth suspected she had been hovering in the corridor. The companion’s expression carried that familiar mixture of concern and determination.
“Forgive me, Lady Matlock,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, “but Miss Anne requires her afternoon rest. She becomes overtaxed quite easily, and I fear this extended conversation may have been too stimulating.”
Elizabeth wanted to protest, but Anne’s borrowed body betrayed her, trembling with exhaustion.
Lady Matlock looked between Elizabeth and Mrs. Jenkinson with an expression that suggested she recognised the power dynamic at play. But she also saw Elizabeth’s obvious exhaustion.
“Of course,” Lady Matlock said, rising. “Anne, dear, you must rest. We will have plenty of time to talk tomorrow, and perhaps see the garden.”
Elizabeth pushed herself upright with effort, accepting Mrs. Jenkinson’s offered arm with reluctance. “Thank you, Aunt. For the tea, and for your kindness.”
“No thanks needed,” Lady Matlock replied, warmth evident despite her concern. “You are family, Anne. Rest well.”
Mrs. Jenkinson guided Elizabeth from the parlour, her hand on Elizabeth’s elbow directing their movement. They walked in silence until they reached the privacy of Anne’s assigned room.
“You must be more careful,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, her voice low but weighted. “Lady Matlock is observant. Too observant. She has already commented that you seem different, more animated than she remembers. You must remember to be more reserved, more withdrawn. The Anne de Bourgh she knows would never speak so freely.”
Elizabeth sank onto the edge of the bed. “I will be more careful,” Elizabeth managed, though the words felt like surrender.
Three days. She had three days to save herself, and Mrs. Jenkinson’s watchfulness had just become even more suffocating.
Three days until Friday, when Anne would marry Darcy. Three days until Elizabeth would be trapped forever in this failing body, dying slowly while her own life was stolen completely.
Three days to accomplish the impossible, or lose everything.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Janebentclosertothe cramped handwriting of Anne’s grimoire, her eyes burning with fatigue as she read the ingredients list for perhaps the hundredth time. Her finger traced down the page, pausing at each item while her gaze flicked to the paper beside her elbow where she had copied everything in her neat hand. Most entries bore satisfying lines through them, evidence of successful acquisition through her uncle’s merchant connections. But one remained stubbornly unmarked, and it was the most crucial of all.
A shaving of bezoar steadies.
Five simple words that represented an impossible obstacle. Jane closed her sore eyes and pressed the heels of her hands against them. The clock showed half past midnight, and she had been sitting here since dinner ended five hours ago. Her uncle’s study felt smaller at this hour, the walls pressing close withtheir burden of ledgers and correspondence. The fire had died to embers, and her shawl had slipped from her shoulders without her noticing.
She let her hands drop and stared at the grimoire with something approaching hatred. The leather binding gleamed dully in the candlelight, innocent and unassuming, giving no hint of the dark knowledge within. Anne de Bourgh had studied this book for years, had learned its secrets from her father, had used its recipes to steal Elizabeth’s body and life. And now Jane needed that same dark knowledge to save her sister, but the final ingredient remained frustratingly out of reach.
