“You believe it,” Darcy said, the statement emerging more as question despite his intention for certainty. “You believe that Anne used magic to swap bodies with Elizabeth.”
“I do,” Fitzwilliam replied, moving fully into the room and closing the door behind him with quiet click that somehow emphasised the gravity of their discussion. “Because I knewSir Lewis dabbled in such things. Not the full extent of his knowledge, perhaps, but enough that I recognised some of the ingredients listed in his grimoire when Miss Bennet showed it to me.”
He crossed to where Jane sat and held out his hand, his expression asking permission rather than demanding compliance. Jane reached into her pocket and withdrew a leather-bound journal, placing it in Fitzwilliam’s palm with visible reluctance to part with evidence that had been so crucial to saving Elizabeth.
Fitzwilliam opened the grimoire, his fingers turning pages with care that suggested familiarity with old books and their fragility. His eyes scanned the cramped handwriting, pausing occasionally at entries that clearly meant something to him. When he finally looked up, his expression showed resignation mixed with old grief.
“My father used to correspond with Sir Lewis about natural philosophy,” Fitzwilliam explained. “They shared an interest in alchemy, though my father approached it as a gentleman’s hobby while Sir Lewis seemed to take it more seriously. I remember seeing some of these same ingredients listed in letters my father received. At the time, I thought it mere eccentricity, wealthy men collecting exotic curiosities to display in cabinets.”
He closed the grimoire with deliberate care, his jaw tightening with emotion he was clearly struggling to contain. “But now, I believe this book contains more than recipes for parlour tricks or medicinal tonics. This is genuine power, dark and dangerous. Anne used it to commit a violation I can barely comprehend. To steal another woman’s body, to trap her in a failing form while living in stolen flesh.” His gaze moved to Elizabeth, showing sympathy that made Darcy’s chest ache with renewed understanding of what his wife had endured. “I am sorry,Elizabeth. Sorry that my family produced someone capable of such wickedness.”
“You bear no responsibility for Anne’s choices,” Elizabeth replied, her voice steady despite the emotion Darcy could feel thrumming through her where their bodies touched. “Each person must answer for their own actions, not those of their relations.”
Fitzwilliam’s expression softened with gratitude for her generosity, but his posture remained rigid with determination. “Nevertheless, I will ensure she can never practice such magic again.” He paused, clearly choosing his next words with care. “Anne must be watched constantly, never allowed access to the ingredients or knowledge required to attempt this wickedness again. I will speak with Lady Catherine, explain what I can without revealing the full extent of Anne’s crimes. She must understand that her daughter requires supervision beyond what Mrs. Jenkinson provided.”
The mention of the companion’s name made Elizabeth’s hand tighten on Darcy’s arm again, and he looked down at her face to find anger there mixed with satisfaction.
“Mrs. Jenkinson was complicit in Anne’s scheme,” Elizabeth said, her voice hardening in ways Darcy had never heard from her before. “She knew about the body swap. Threatened me when I was trapped in Anne’s form, told me that speaking the truth would only result in my being declared mad. She kept me drugged and watched me almost constantly, ensuring I could not interfere with Anne’s stolen happiness.”
Darcy felt fury rise in his chest with force that made his vision narrow, his free hand clenching into a fist against his thigh. That woman, that supposed companion employed to care for an invalid, had instead enabled her charge’s wickedness and actively worked to keep Elizabeth trapped in her nightmare. His protective instincts, already heightened by recent events,transformed into something darker and more primal. Someone had hurt his wife, had deliberately prolonged her suffering, and his every instinct demanded retribution.
“She will answer for what she has done,” Darcy said, his voice emerging low and dangerous.
“She already has, in a sense,” Elizabeth replied, and now satisfaction coloured her tone. “I told Lady Matlock that Mrs. Jenkinson had been drugging Anne, which was true enough even if the target was not who your aunt believed. Lady Matlock had the bottles examined and found concentrations strong enough to render a healthy adult insensible. She confined Mrs. Jenkinson to her room until after the wedding, with orders that she not be allowed to communicate with anyone.”
Darcy felt grim approval settle over his fury, tempering it into something more controlled. His aunt had acted decisively to protect who she believed was her niece, and in doing so had neutralised a genuine threat without even knowing the full truth of the situation. Lady Matlock’s competence in a crisis was well established, but Darcy felt renewed respect for her willingness to act on Anne’s word alone, to believe and protect rather than dismissing concerns as hysteria.
Fitzwilliam’s jaw had tightened further during Elizabeth’s explanation, his expression showing the same protective fury Darcy felt. “Then Mrs. Jenkinson’s fate is sealed. Lady Catherine must be made to understand that her companion betrayed the trust placed in her, endangered her charge rather than protecting her. On the evidence of those bottles alone, there should be no difficulty in securing her dismissal.”
He moved to the window, his posture suggesting he needed distance to process everything he had learned. Darcy watched his cousin’s profile, seeing conflict written in the tension around his eyes and mouth. This was family. Anne was Fitzwilliam’s cousin just as she was Darcy’s. Learning of her capacity for suchwickedness could not be easy, even for someone as pragmatic as his cousin.
“I am sorry you had to learn this,” Darcy said quietly, addressing Fitzwilliam though his words applied equally to himself. “About Anne, about Sir Lewis’s dark practices. These are not easy truths to bear.”
“No,” Fitzwilliam agreed, his gaze still fixed on whatever lay beyond the window glass. “But necessary ones. Better to know the truth and act accordingly than to remain in ignorance while evil continues unchecked.” He turned back to face the room, his expression showing renewed determination beneath the grief. “We must decide how to proceed. What story to tell, what measures to take to ensure this never happens again.”
Darcy gestured toward the small table positioned near the window. The four of them moved across together and settled into chairs that suddenly felt too intimate for the gravity of their discussion, their voices dropping to hushed tones that would not carry beyond the room’s walls even though the door remained closed against interruption.
“We must contain the scandal at all costs,” Darcy said, his mind already working through implications and strategies with the same focus he applied to managing Pemberley’s accounts. “If word spreads beyond this household about what truly occurred, the damage would be catastrophic. Not just to Anne, though she deserves whatever censure would come her way, but to Elizabeth as well. Society would not understand. They would dismiss it as madness or worse.”
He leaned forward, his elbows on the table and his hands clasped before him in a posture that usually helped him think clearly. But clarity felt elusive now, with Elizabeth sitting beside him and the memory of their interrupted conversation still fresh in his mind. “Accusations of witchcraft, even in this enlightened age, carry weight. People would question Elizabeth’s sanity formaking such claims. They would wonder whether I had married a madwoman, whether our children might inherit some taint of lunacy.”
The word ‘children’ emerged before he could stop it, and Darcy felt heat rise in his face at the presumption. Elizabeth might want no such future with him. He had no right to assume otherwise, regardless of what he might wish.
Fitzwilliam nodded agreement, his expression showing he had been thinking along similar lines. “The story we tell must be simple and believable. Two ladies overcome by the excitement and heat of a wedding breakfast, nothing more sinister than that. Anne’s collapse can be attributed to her known poor health. Elizabeth’s to the natural nervousness of a new bride.”
“People saw them collapse simultaneously,” Jane pointed out quietly. “That will seem strange, will invite speculation about shared illness or poison.”
“Then we emphasise the coincidence,” Darcy replied, warming to the strategy as it took shape in his mind. “Strange, yes, but ultimately meaningless. The human mind seeks patterns even where none exist. We simply refuse to feed speculation with our own concerns, treat it as an unfortunate incident that has already passed.”
Elizabeth had been silent during this exchange, her gaze fixed on her hands where they rested on the table’s polished surface. Darcy noticed her fingers moving to touch the gold band on her left hand, the wedding ring he had placed there mere hours ago. She turned it slowly, the metal catching light from the window, her expression distant in ways that made his chest tighten with anxiety he could not quite name.
Did she regret it? Regret the marriage, the binding vows that could not be easily undone? She had said she did not hate him, had even suggested she thought better of him now than before. But that was hardly the same as wanting to remain his wife,especially when the marriage had been contracted under such extraordinary circumstances.
Jane cleared her throat softly, drawing attention back to herself. Her face showed conflict, torn between loyalty to her sister and some other consideration Darcy could not immediately identify. When she spoke, her words emerged hesitant, almost apologetic.
“Forgive me for asking,” Jane said, her gaze moving between Darcy and Elizabeth with careful assessment. “Will you seek an annulment? It would be understandable, given the circumstances. Elizabeth did not truly consent to this marriage.”
The question struck Darcy with force that made breathing difficult. An annulment. The end of his marriage before it had properly begun, the dissolution of vows that had meant everything to him even if they had been spoken to the wrong woman. His mind immediately began cataloguing the process, the requirements, the explanations that would be demanded by ecclesiastical courts.
