Lord Matlock cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable with the emotional display but moved nonetheless. “Rest now, Anne. My wife will stay with you tonight to ensure you are not disturbed. And tomorrow, you will attend Darcy’s wedding without fear of interference from that dreadful woman.”
They settled Elizabeth more comfortably, Lady Matlock arranging pillows with tender care while Lord Matlock attended to the fire. Elizabeth closed her weary eyes and felt something that might have been hope stir in her chest.
Jane had what she needed to complete the potion, and Mrs. Jenkinson was neutralised. Locked away where she could not warn Anne or sabotage Jane’s plan. One threat removed, one obstacle cleared from their path.
Tomorrow still seemed impossible. But perhaps, with Mrs. Jenkinson confined and unable to interfere, impossible might become merely extremely difficult.
Elizabeth would take those odds.
She had no other choice.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Thecandlehadburneddown to a stub, its flame guttering in the pool of wax that had spread across the edge of the Gardiner study desk. Jane blinked at it with eyes that felt full of sand, her vision blurring as exhaustion pulled at her consciousness. The grimoire lay open before her, its cramped handwriting swimming in and out of focus.
The clock showed half past four in the morning. Jane had been working without pause for hours, following the grimoire’s instructions with the meticulous care of someone who knew that a single mistake would doom her sister forever. The potion simmered in a small brass pot over a spirit lamp, its surface rippling with opalescent swirls. The scent it gave off was strange, neither pleasant nor entirely foul, something that made the back of her throat itch.
She added the final measure of pearl powder, stirring clockwise seven times as the grimoire instructed. The potion’s colour shifted from milky white to pale amber, then settled into something that reminded Jane uncomfortably of old blood diluted with water. Her hand shook badly enough that the stirring rod clinked against the pot’s rim.
Three more minutes at a gentle simmer, then it would be ready. Jane set down the stirring rod and pressed the heels of her hands against her closed eyes. Her back ached from hours bent over the desk, and her neck had developed a persistent crick. But she could not stop now. Could not rest when Elizabeth’s entire future hung on the successful completion of this wicked draught.
The three minutes passed with agonising slowness. Jane watched the potion bubble gently, its surface throwing off faint vapours that made the air shimmer like heat rising from summer pavement. When the time elapsed, she removed it from the flame with shaking hands and set it aside to cool, her heart hammering with exhausted triumph.
She had done it. The reversal potion was complete.
Jane pulled two small glass phials from her pocket, their stoppers tight against the precious emptiness within. She had acquired them yesterday from the apothecary, claiming she needed them for a homemade perfume.
The potion had cooled enough to handle. Jane lifted the pot with both hands and poured carefully, watching the amber liquid stream into the first phial. Half the potion went into that one, for Anne to drink. The other half she poured into the second phial, for Elizabeth trapped in Anne’s failing body.
Jane stoppered both phials with fingers that fumbled despite her care. She wrapped them together in Colonel Fitzwilliam’s handkerchief, the fine linen still carrying a faint trace of his cologne. The wrapped phials went into her dress pocket, settlingagainst her hip with weight that felt far heavier than their actual mass.
Done. It was done. All that remained was to administer the potions at the wedding breakfast, somehow convincing Anne to drink. The impossibility of that task pressed down on Jane’s shoulders, but she pushed it aside with grim determination. She would find a way.
The house lay silent around her as she climbed the stair, exhaustion dragging at her with every step. At last, she reached the chamber she was sharing with Mary and collapsed onto the bed without bothering to undress properly, merely loosening her stays enough to breathe. Sleep claimed her within seconds.
Morning arrived far too soon, grey light filtering through the curtains to strike Jane’s closed eyelids. She woke with a gasp, her heart racing as she remembered what day this was. The wedding. Elizabeth’s wedding to Darcy, except it was not Elizabeth at all but Anne wearing her stolen face and body.
Jane pushed herself upright, every muscle protesting the movement. She felt as though she had been beaten, her exhaustion so complete that even sitting up required conscious effort. But there was no time to rest. The wedding was at three o’clock.
The phials in her pocket bumped against her hip as she moved, their presence a constant reminder of what she must accomplish today. She checked them to ensure the stoppers remained secure, breathing a sigh of relief to find they were.
Breakfast proved an ordeal Jane barely remembered afterwards. The impostor sat at the table in Elizabeth’s body, eating with delicate bites and making cheerful conversation that set Jane’s teeth on edge. Anne had perfected her imitation now, had learned to speak and move and smile exactly as Elizabeth would. Only Jane could see the wrongness beneath the performance.
“Are you quite well, Jane?” the false Elizabeth asked, her voice carrying concern that would have fooled anyone who did not know the truth. “You look rather pale this morning.” Anne had played her role well the past few days, Jane had to concede; though she had been quieter and more compliant with Mrs. Bennet’s demands than the real Elizabeth had been, everyone but Jane had probably attributed that change to nerves over the upcoming wedding. If Anne succeeded in her goal, in marrying Mr. Darcy and leaving for Pemberley, Jane was quite sure none of the Bennet family would ever see her again. Anne would cut all ties without a second thought.
“I am well enough,” Jane replied, forcing herself to meet those familiar eyes that held an unfamiliar intelligence. “Merely tired. I did not sleep well last night.”
“Nerves, I expect,” Mrs. Bennet declared from her end of the table. “My Jane has always been so sensitive. But you must eat something, dear. You will need your strength for today’s festivities.”
Jane managed a few bites of toast that tasted like ashes, washing them down with tea that had gone cold. Across from her, Anne preened in Elizabeth’s stolen flesh, clearly savouring every moment of her triumph.
After breakfast, Jane followed the impostor upstairs to help her dress for the ceremony. The wedding gown hung on the wardrobe door, pale cream silk with tiny pearls stitched on the bodice. It had cost more than Jane’s entire wardrobe combined. Lady Matlock had insisted on providing it, her generosity meaning that Anne would marry Darcy in borrowed finery to match her borrowed body.
“Help me with my stays,” Anne commanded, then caught herself and softened her tone. “If you would be so kind, Jane. I confess I am all nerves this morning.”
Jane moved behind her and began to assist, despite the rage that coiled in her chest. This woman had stolen her sister’s life, had condemned Elizabeth to die slowly in a failing body, had manipulated circumstances to marry the man who loved Elizabeth. And now Jane had to help her dress for the wedding and pretend nothing was wrong.
“You must be very happy,” Jane made herself say, keeping her voice neutral. “Marrying Mr. Darcy.”
