The words struck Anne like blows, each syllable landing with precision. She wanted to protest, to explain that Elizabeth’s death would have been quick, that the body would have failed within weeks or months at most. But her voice would not work, her throat closing around explanations that suddenly felt hollow even to her own ears.
“Elizabeth Bennet did nothing to deserve what you did to her,” Fitzwilliam continued, his voice remaining quiet but carrying condemnation. “She did not waste the health you claim she squandered. She lived as young women should live, with joy and energy and engagement with the world around her. The fact that you were denied such experiences does not make her responsible for your suffering, nor does it give you right to steal her life as recompense.”
He paused, letting his words settle over Anne like a shroud. “You speak of fairness, of earning what you took through your own cleverness. But there is no fairness in condemning an innocent person to death simply because you envy what they possess. That is not cleverness, Anne. That is wickedness of a kind I would not have believed any member of my family capableof attempting. That would have been murder, in the plainest of speaking.”
Anne’s vision had blurred with tears she could not stop, salt water tracking down her cheeks to dampen the pillow beneath her head. She wanted to argue, wanted to make him understand how desperate she had been, how the long years of suffering had driven her to actions she might not have contemplated in calmer circumstances. But the words would not come, her throat too tight.
“The arrangements being made are not punishment,” Fitzwilliam said, his tone gentling slightly though his words remained uncompromising. “They are protection. Protection for you, to keep you from attempting such wickedness again. And protection for others who might become targets if you were left with freedom to pursue your desires unchecked.”
He rose from the bed, his movement causing the mattress to shift beneath Anne’s slight weight. “I am sorry for what you have suffered, Anne. Genuinely sorry. But suffering does not excuse what you attempted, nor does it make you less responsible for choices you made with full understanding of their consequences.”
Anne watched through tear-blurred vision as he moved towards the door, each step carrying him further away. He paused at the threshold, his hand on the doorframe, and looked back at her with expression that mixed pity and disappointment in equal measure.
“You have lost everything, Anne,” Fitzwilliam said, his voice carrying finality. “Your freedom, your access to the resources you would need for another attempt, any chance of the future you envisioned. But you have time yet to repent your sins. If I were you, I would use whatever time remained to me to pray, for the sake of my soul and what might come after this life.”
He left then, closing the door with quiet click that somehow sounded louder than if he had slammed it. Anne heard the footman shift position outside, settling back into guard duty that would apparently continue for whatever remained of her abbreviated life.
She lay amongst her pillows, tears continuing to fall despite her best efforts to stop them, her chest aching with something that had nothing to do with her damaged lungs. Fitzwilliam’s words echoed in her head with terrible clarity, stripping away the justifications she had built so carefully around her actions.
You were willing, even eager, to condemn an innocent woman to die in your stead. That would have been murder.
The truth of it settled over Anne like a weight, crushing in its undeniability. She had not thought of it in such stark terms while planning the body swap, had focused instead on what she would gain rather than what Elizabeth would lose. But hearing it stated so plainly, stripped of all the euphemisms and justifications she had wrapped around it, made the wickedness of her actions impossible to ignore.
Anne closed her eyes, fresh tears leaking from beneath her lids to dampen already-wet pillows. She had lost everything. Her freedom, her future, any chance of escaping this failing body that would be her prison until death finally claimed her.
The injustice she had railed against moments ago suddenly felt less clear. She was suffering, yes. Had suffered her entire life in ways that Elizabeth could never truly understand. But suffering did not excuse wickedness, did not make attempted murder somehow acceptable because the would-be murderer had experienced pain.
Anne lay surrounded by luxury and comfort that would soon be traded for careful confinement in Bath, and felt the full weight of what she had done settle over her consciousness like a shroud. She had tried to kill Elizabeth Bennet. Not quickly ormercifully, but slowly, through the gradual failure of a body that would have taken weeks or months to finally give up entirely. Had been prepared to listen to reports of Elizabeth’s decline, to enjoy her stolen health while her victim suffered everything Anne herself had endured since childhood.
The realisation should have brought remorse, should have inspired some desire to atone for wickedness that even Anne could no longer deny. But all she felt was emptiness, a hollow space where determination and righteous fury had burned so brightly just minutes ago. She had gambled everything on one desperate attempt to escape her fate, and she had lost. Now there was nothing left but to endure whatever time remained in this failing body, watched constantly to ensure she could harm no one else.
Anne’s tears gradually slowed, exhaustion finally overwhelming even grief. Her breathing settled into the shallow, laboured pattern that represented her body’s best effort at sustaining life. Outside her door, the footman stood guard, ensuring she remained exactly where she was. Trapped. Defeated. And entirely, utterly alone with consequences she could no longer deny or avoid.
The future stretched before her, measured not in years but in months or weeks until this treacherous body finally gave up entirely. And unlike the future she had briefly claimed through wickedness and alchemy, this one held nothing but slow decline watched by guards whose job was to ensure she harmed no one else before death claimed her at last.
It was, Anne thought distantly as consciousness began to fray at the edges again, exactly what she deserved. That knowledge did not make it easier to bear. But perhaps that, too, was part of the punishment for crimes she could no longer pretend were justified by suffering alone.
Chapter Thirty-One
ThedrawingroomatDarcy House caught the morning light differently than the grand rooms at Matlock House had done, Elizabeth noted. Softer somehow, less imposing despite the evident quality of the furnishings. She sat beside Jane on a cream damask settee positioned near tall windows that overlooked the street, her fingers tracing idle patterns on her skirts while they waited for Mr. Bingley’s arrival.
A week had passed since the wedding, since potions and body swaps and impossible revelations, and life had settled into something that felt almost normal if one did not think too carefully about the strangeness of it all. Elizabeth had returned to Longbourn briefly, but her mother had asked too many questions, and Elizabeth decided it would be best to stay in London, at Darcy House, until her second wedding day arrived.
Jane sat with perfect posture beside her, hands folded in her lap with the composure that had always come naturally to her. But Elizabeth saw the tension in her sister’s shoulders, the way her gaze kept drifting to the window as though she could will Mr. Bingley to arrive sooner through sheer force of attention. Or perhaps delay him. Elizabeth could not quite tell which Jane hoped for, and suspected her sister might not know herself.
Darcy had written to Mr. Bingley three days ago, a letter Elizabeth had not read but whose contents she knew. An admission of fault, an explanation of his interference in separating Bingley from Jane, and an invitation to call at Darcy House when convenient. The letter had been Darcy’s idea, offered during one of their careful conversations as they navigated the strange territory of their marriage that was and was not yet fully a marriage. He had seemed genuinely troubled by his past actions, had wanted to make amends in whatever way he could.
The sound of footsteps in the entrance hall made both sisters straighten, Elizabeth’s hands stilling on her skirts while Jane’s fingers tightened momentarily against each other before relaxing again into studied calm.
When Bingley himself entered, Elizabeth felt her chest constrict at the sight of him. He looked exactly as she remembered, all eager energy and open expression, his fair hair slightly dishevelled as though he had run his hands through it repeatedly during the carriage ride over. His eyes found Jane immediately, lighting with pleasure so genuine and unguarded that Elizabeth felt like an intruder witnessing something too private for observation.
“Miss Bennet,” Bingley said, his voice carrying warmth that seemed to fill the room. His steps quickened as he crossed toward them, his smile wide enough to show teeth. “Howdelightful to see you again. You look wonderfully well. London clearly agrees with you.”
Jane rose with movements that suggested neither haste nor reluctance, finding some middle ground that spoke of careful control. Her answering smile reached her lips but did not quite extend to her eyes, Elizabeth noticed. Nothing like the radiant joy that had once transformed Jane’s face whenever Bingley entered a room in Hertfordshire.
“Mr. Bingley,” Jane replied, her voice carrying its usual gentle warmth but lacking the breathless quality it had held during his previous courtship. “How kind of you to call. Please, do sit. Elizabeth and I were just discussing how pleasant the weather has been this week.”
They had been discussing no such thing, but the polite fiction served its purpose. Bingley settled into the chair nearest Jane with barely contained energy, his attention fixed on her face with intensity that made Elizabeth want to look away. Instead, she remained seated, offering her own greeting when Bingley finally remembered her presence enough to acknowledge it.
