“Oh, I am,” Anne breathed, her voice taking on a smugness that made Jane want to strike her. “I am the happiest woman alive. Mrs. Darcy. Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy of Pemberley. It sounds wonderful, does it not?”
“Wonderful,” Jane echoed flatly. She tightened the stays with perhaps more force than necessary, satisfaction flickering through her when Anne gasped slightly.
Jane helped her into the chemise, then the petticoats, layering them with care. The wedding gown came next, its silk whispering as Jane lifted it over Anne’s head and settled it onto her shoulders. The bodice required careful fastening, each tiny pearl button threaded into its buttonhole. Jane breathed slowly, fighting her simmering anger as she patiently fixed each button in place.
“Will you brush my hair?” Anne asked, settling before the dressing table mirror with satisfaction evident in every line of her stolen posture. “You always did it so well.”
Jane picked up the brush and began working it through the dark curls that were Elizabeth’s but not Elizabeth’s, each stroke requiring her to suppress the urge to yank hard enough to hurt. Anne watched her reflection with obvious pleasure, admiring the way the wedding gown displayed Elizabeth’s figure.
“I look beautiful,” Anne murmured. “I will be Mrs. Darcy, and I am beautiful, and I am happy.”
Jane said nothing, continuing to brush with steady strokes while fury and grief warred in her chest. She pinned Elizabeth’s hair into an elaborate arrangement, her fingers working with the skill of long practice despite their trembling. Pearl pins went in to secure the style.
A knock at the door interrupted the grooming. Mr. Bennet entered when Elizabeth called out acknowledgement, his expression puzzled as he took in his supposed daughter’s reflection and her smug smile. Jane saw his confusion, the way his gaze lingered on details that were not quite right. He, too, suspected something. Anne had been careful to avoid both of them these last days, presumably aware that the greatest danger of exposure came from the two who loved Elizabeth best.
“Well, Lizzy,” Mr. Bennet said, his tone carrying uncertainty beneath its attempted cheerfulness. “You look very fine indeed. Are you ready to become Mrs. Darcy?”
“Oh yes, Papa,” Anne replied, rising to embrace him with enthusiasm that made Mr. Bennet’s eyebrows rise. Elizabeth had never been particularly demonstrative with physical affection, preferring a quick handclasp or kiss to a tight hug. “I am more ready than I have ever been for anything.”
Mr. Bennet patted her back awkwardly, clearly unsettled. He looked to Jane over Anne’s shoulder, his expression questioning, but Jane could only offer a small shrug.
“The carriage is ready,” Mr. Bennet announced, extracting himself from Anne’s embrace with visible relief. “We should depart soon to ensure we arrive in good time.”
Jane climbed into the carriage last, settling onto the seat across from Anne and Mr. Bennet. The vehicle lurched into motion, wheels rattling over London’s cobblestones while Jane watched the streets pass by outside the window and tried to hold in her nausea.
St George’s, Hanover Square, rose before them with its pale stone façade catching the afternoon sun, its columns standing like sentinels. The carriage rolled to a stop, and Jane descended with legs that felt disconnected from her body.
The church’s interior struck her with its soaring height, its ceiling arching overhead in elegant curves. Light streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazy through air heavy with the scent of beeswax and flowers. White roses adorned the ends of pews, their perfume cloying in Jane’s throat as she moved down the aisle behind Anne and Mr. Bennet.
Guests had already assembled, filling perhaps two dozen pews. The Matlocks occupied prominent positions at the front, Lady Matlock watching the bride’s approach with warm approval while Lord Matlock’s expression showed more reserve. Colonel Fitzwilliam caught Jane’s eye and smiled. She struggled to muster a smile in response, and saw the questions in his expression before she looked away. She could not think of him now.
Jane took her place in the front pew on the bride’s side, her hands folded in her lap with fingers that would not quite stay still. Her gaze moved across the aisle to where a pretty blonde girl who must be Georgiana Darcy sat wreathed in smiles. Beyond her, Lady Catherine sat rigid with disapproval, and there, beside her, sat the real Elizabeth trapped in Anne’s failing body.
Their eyes met across the narrow space. Elizabeth looked terrible, Anne’s face showing pallor that went beyond mereillness. But her gaze held her fierce intelligence and desperate hope mixed with terror as she looked at Jane. A question passed between them without words.Do you have it? Can we do this?
Jane’s hand moved to her pocket in answer, pressing briefly against the wrapped phials before returning to her lap. Elizabeth’s eyes closed with relief so profound that Jane saw tears gather beneath the pale lashes.
Movement at the front of the church drew Jane’s attention. Darcy had entered through a side door, a smile on his face as he walked to his place before the altar, greeting the waiting clergyman.
He loved Elizabeth. Loved the woman he thought he was marrying, unaware that the bride processing towards him wore a stolen face and carried a black heart beneath the cream silk gown. Jane wanted to shout the truth, wanted to stand and declare the deception. But who would believe her? They would think her mad. Would remove her from the church while the ceremony continued without interruption.
The organ swelled with music. Anne began her walk down the aisle on Mr. Bennet’s arm, moving with Elizabeth’s natural grace made triumphant by Anne’s victory. She looked beautiful. Looked exactly like a bride should look, radiant with happiness and love. No one watching would suspect that beneath that lovely exterior lurked a woman who had stolen everything she wore, including the body that carried her forwards.
Jane watched Darcy’s face as Anne approached. Saw confusion flicker there, quickly suppressed. Something about his bride’s manner was not quite right, not quite what he expected. But love overcame uncertainty, his expression softening as Anne reached his side and Mr. Bennet placed her hand in his.
The vicar began speaking, his voice carrying through the church with calm authority. Jane heard the words without processing them, her attention fixed on the couple before thealtar. Anne smiled up at Darcy with Elizabeth’s face, her expression so perfect an imitation that Jane felt nausea rise in her throat.
“If any person here present knows of any lawful impediment to this marriage,” the vicar intoned, his gaze sweeping the assembled guests, “let them speak now, or forever hold their peace.”
The silence that followed stretched taut as a bowstring. Jane’s throat closed around words that wanted to break free, accusations that pressed against her teeth demanding release. She knows of an impediment. The greatest impediment possible. The bride was not who she claimed to be.
But Jane’s lips remained pressed together, her hands clenched in her lap with nails digging into her palms. Speaking now would accomplish nothing except her own removal from the church and the loss of the one chance they had. Better to wait, to let the ceremony proceed, to act during the wedding breakfast when she might actually succeed in reversing this terrible wrong.
The moment passed. The vicar continued.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” the vicar said, turning to Darcy, “wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together according to God’s law in the holy estate of matrimony? Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live?”
“I will,” Darcy replied, his voice steady despite the uncertainty that lingered in his eyes.
