Tomorrow. The Colonel would return tomorrow with the final ingredient. Which meant she would have one day to brew the potion before the Friday wedding. One day to prepare something that required hours of careful work, precise timing, and constant attention to temperature and measurements. One day to accomplish what should take two or three at minimum according to the grimoire’s instructions.
Jane pushed herself upright and moved towards the stairs, her exhaustion forgotten in renewed determination. She needed to review the brewing instructions again, needed to calculate exactly how long each step would take and whether she could compress the timeline without ruining the potion’s efficacy. Needed to plan how she would trick Anne into drinking it.
The clock in the hallway chimed three as she climbed towards her chamber. It was exactly forty-eight hours until the wedding.
Forty-eight hours to save Elizabeth.
It would have to be enough.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Janehadpositionedherselfby the parlour window three times that morning, each time forcing herself away with the reminder that watched pots never boiled and colonels never arrived more quickly for being stared after. But the fourth time she found herself drawn to the glass, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s familiar figure appeared walking along Gracechurch Street, and her heart performed an uncomfortable leap that had nothing to do with the bezoar she hoped he carried.
She moved away from the window with deliberate calm, settling in the chair farthest from where she had been standing, her hands folded in her lap with what she hoped appeared like casual patience. The clock showed half past three. Anne was out with Mr. Darcy, taking a drive in Hyde Park that Mrs. Bennet had insisted upon. Jane had watched them depart an hour ago, had seen the impostor smile at Darcy with Elizabeth’s face whilewearing Elizabeth’s favourite blue pelisse, and had wanted to scream at the wrongness of it all.
The maid announced Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Jane rose with hands that trembled slightly. He entered carrying a small object wrapped in a handkerchief, his expression mixing triumph with something softer that made Jane’s breath catch.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, executing a bow that managed to be both formal and familiar. “I come bearing gifts, as promised.”
He crossed to where she stood and held out the wrapped object with ceremony that suggested he somehow understood its importance. Jane took it with fingers that shook properly now, no pretence possible. She unwrapped the handkerchief with careful movements, aware of the Colonel watching her face rather than her hands.
The bezoar shaving lay against white linen, a thin curved shard no larger than her thumbnail. Its surface caught the afternoon light with an iridescent sheen that shifted from brownish-green to deep purple as she tilted it, the concentric layers visible even in this small fragment.
“Oh,” Jane whispered, her voice breaking. “Oh, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I cannot thank you enough.”
“It was indeed in my father’s cabinet of curiosities, as I had thought,” the Colonel explained, moving to stand beside her. His shoulder nearly touched hers, close enough that she could feel warmth radiating from him. “The stone itself is quite ancient, supposedly taken from a Persian goat some hundred years ago. My grandfather acquired it during his diplomatic service in the East, though I suspect the merchant who sold it to him may have exaggerated its provenance somewhat.”
Jane looked up from the bezoar to find him watching her with that same searching intensity from yesterday. “Your father will not mind its loss?”
“He has the whole stone still,” the Colonel assured her. “I merely took a thin shaving from the outermost layer. He will never notice its absence, and even if he does, I shall simply tell him I needed it for medicinal purposes. Which is not entirely untrue, I think, given your urgent need for it.”
The statement hung between them with weight that made Jane’s chest tighten. He knew something was wrong. His willingness to help without demanding explanations demonstrated either remarkable trust or remarkable perception, and Jane suspected it was both.
“When a lady asks for an antidote,” she quoted back to him with small smile, “you do not enquire after the poison.”
“Precisely,” Colonel Fitzwilliam agreed, his expression warming further. “Though I confess myself curious about what poison requires such an exotic remedy. Not curious enough to pry, mind you. But curious nonetheless.”
Jane wrapped the bezoar shaving carefully back in his handkerchief, her fingers lingering on the fine linen that still carried a faint scent of his cologne. She should return it, should fetch one of her own handkerchiefs. But some part of her wanted to keep this small piece of him, this tangible reminder of his kindness and trust.
“I hope someday soon, I might explain,” Jane said, surprising herself with the admission. “When circumstances permit such confidence. But for now, I can only thank you and beg your continued discretion.”
“You have both,” the Colonel replied, his voice dropping lower. “Miss Bennet, I hope you know that if you are in any sort of trouble, any difficulty whatsoever, you need only ask for my assistance. I would count it an honour to be of service to you.”
The earnestness in his tone made Jane’s throat tighten. She looked up at him, at his kind face and honest eyes, and felt something shift in her chest that had nothing to do withElizabeth’s desperate situation and everything to do with the man standing before her.
“May I ask you something?” the Colonel continued, his gaze searching hers with intensity that made her pulse quicken. “Not about the bezoar or your mysterious purpose. Something else entirely.”
“Of course,” Jane managed, though her voice emerged breathless.
“Yesterday, I asked whether you remained heartbroken over Mr. Bingley’s departure,” the Colonel said, his words coming more slowly now as though he was choosing each one with deliberate care. “Your answer suggested your feelings had changed, that your thoughts were occupied with other concerns. I wonder if I might ask a more direct question, one that I confess touches on matters of personal interest rather than mere curiosity.”
Jane’s heart hammered against her ribs. “What question?”
“Do you still hold any tender feelings for Mr. Bingley?” the Colonel asked, his gaze never leaving hers. “Or has your heart moved past that disappointment entirely?”
The directness of the question should have shocked her, should have made her step back and remind him that such personal enquiries bordered on impropriety. But Jane found she did not want to step back. Found instead that she wanted to answer with equal honesty.
“I do not think I ever held truly tender feelings for Mr. Bingley,” Jane said, the admission emerging with surprising ease. “I liked him. Found him pleasant and kind. But when he left, when my expectations were disappointed, I grieved more for the idea of him than for the man himself. And now...” She paused, gathering courage. “Now I find that all my thoughts are occupied with my sister’s welfare. There is no room left for regretover Mr. Bingley, if there ever truly was such regret to begin with.”
