She left the breakfast parlour and climbed the stairs to her borrowed room to fetch a bonnet, each step taken with joy at the ease of movement. Soon she would walk outside, alone and free. And soon after that, she would see Darcy again. Would smile at him with Elizabeth’s pretty face. Would let him fall even more deeply in love with the woman he thought she was.
Everything Anne had ever wanted was finally within her grasp.
Anne stepped through the parsonage door into the spring morning. The air smelled of growing things, damp earth and new leaves. She breathed deeply, pulling fresh air into lungs that expanded fully, that did not labour and wheeze. Her chest rose and fell with easy rhythm.
She set off down the lane with purposeful strides, her boots striking the packed earth with satisfying firmness. No shuffling steps, no careful placement to avoid stumbling. She simply walked, feeling the play of muscles in her legs and back. Elizabeth’s body moved with unconscious grace, carrying her forward effortlessly.
The lane stretched before her, bordered by hedgerows burst into spring glory. White hawthorn blossoms clustered thickly among the branches, their sweet scent drifting on the breeze. Patches of primroses dotted the verge, pale yellow faces turned toward the sun. Anne noticed them with new appreciation. She had seen such flowers from carriage windows and formal gardens, but had never walked among them like this, never been able to simply stop and examine them without Mrs. Jenkinson fussing.
She did not stop now. Stopping would waste the precious sensation of movement. Anne walked on, humming under her breath. Her skirts swished around her ankles with each step. She could feel the sun warm on her face, the breeze lifting the curls at her temples. The physical sensations flooded through her, almost overwhelming after years of numbness.
For so long, Anne’s experience of her body had been defined by failures. Breathlessness with the slightest exertion. Weakness that left her faint and trembling after climbing a single flight of stairs. Nausea that made eating a trial. Fatigue that made even sitting upright exhausting. She had been trapped in a prison of failing flesh, watching the world from behind windows, unable to participate.
But this body functioned beautifully. Anne’s footsteps quickened, testing her new strength. Her legs responded eagerly, carrying her faster without protest. Her breathing remained steady. She could run if she wanted. Could dance all night. Could ride or climb or do any of a thousand things that had been denied to her.
The lane curved ahead, following the edge of a small wood, and Anne followed without concern for distance or time. No one would worry if she stayed out for hours. Elizabeth walked every day, sometimes covering several miles. Anne could wander as far as she pleased, and when she returned, no one would fuss. Shewould simply be Elizabeth Bennet, healthy and strong, returning from a pleasant ramble.
Anne was so absorbed in the joy of movement that she almost missed the figure approaching. But the man’s height made him difficult to overlook, and when Anne lifted her gaze, she recognised Darcy immediately.
He walked with his characteristic purposeful stride, his dark coat fitting perfectly across his broad shoulders, his boots polished to a gleam. Even from here, Anne could identify him by his bearing alone. Darcy moved through the world with the confidence of a man who had never doubted his place in it.
Anne’s lips curved in a smile. Perfect. She had hoped to encounter him, but not quite so soon.
Darcy had apparently spotted her as well. His pace quickened. As he drew closer, Anne could see his expression transforming, the usual reserve giving way to something warmer. His eyes, which typically maintained a careful blankness in company, lit with unmistakable pleasure.
How obvious he was. Anne had observed him watching Elizabeth with barely concealed fascination. Her mother had complained constantly about his inattention, about his rudeness in paying more court to the parson’s guest than to his intended cousin. Lady Catherine had been too blind to see what Anne had recognised immediately. Darcy was in love with Elizabeth Bennet.
And Elizabeth, the silly chit, had been too stubborn or proud or blind to notice. Anne had seen them together in the drawing room at Rosings, had watched Darcy attempt conversation while Elizabeth responded with cool civility bordering on rudeness. The fool. Fitzwilliam Darcy, master of Pemberley, one of the richest men in England, handsome and accomplished and utterly besotted, and Elizabeth had treated him with indifference.
Well. Elizabeth was gone now, trapped in Anne’s dying body, paying the price for her stupidity. And Anne stood here in Elizabeth’s healthy body, watching Darcy approach with that expression he had never, would never, direct at the real Anne de Bourgh.
“Miss Bennet!” Darcy called as he came within speaking distance. He removed his hat, his dark hair slightly dishevelled by the breeze. “I had not expected to find you out walking this morning. How are you feeling?”
Anne arranged her features into pleased surprise. “Mr. Darcy! What brings you to this part of Hunsford so early?”
“I came to inquire after your health,” he said, closing the distance between them. His eyes searched her face, warm concern evident. “Mrs. Collins mentioned at dinner last evening that you had taken ill quite suddenly. We were all concerned when you did not join us at Rosings. I...” He paused. “I called at the parsonage last night to see how you did, but the maid said you had fallen asleep.”
“Did you?” Anne infused the words with warmth, with gratitude. Elizabeth would be grateful, would she not? Though perhaps she would also tease him slightly. Anne was not quite certain how to strike that balance yet. Better to err on the side of warmth. “How kind of you. I am sorry to have caused such concern. It was merely a headache, though a severe one. But as you see, I am quite recovered now.”
She spread her arms slightly, demonstrating her renewed health, and smiled up at him. Darcy’s expression softened further, relief evident in the easing of tension around his eyes.
“I am very glad to hear it,” he said quietly. “You gave us all quite a fright. Colonel Fitzwilliam was concerned as well, and even my aunt, though she expressed it by complaining that you should have had more sense than to overtire yourself with walking.”
Anne laughed easily. “Lady Catherine is ever solicitous. But truly, I am perfectly well. The fresh air and sunshine are precisely what I needed.” She glanced around at the hedgerows, the flowering hawthorn, the bright morning light. “It is far too beautiful a day to remain indoors, particularly after being confined to bed yesterday.”
Darcy’s gaze followed hers, taking in the lane and spring blossoms, but Anne noticed his attention returned quickly to her face. He watched her with an intensity that might have been uncomfortable if Anne had not been so pleased by it. This was what she had wanted. This attention, this regard, this devotion that Elizabeth had scorned.
“May I walk with you?” Darcy asked. “If you are not opposed to company?”
Anne pretended to consider, though her heart leapt. “I should be glad of your company, Mr. Darcy. Perhaps you may point out some features on this walk to me.”
It was exactly the wrong thing to say. Anne realised it the moment the words left her mouth. Elizabeth had been walking these lanes for weeks. She would not need Darcy to point out features. But Darcy seemed not to notice, or perhaps attributed it to her recent illness.
“Then I am honoured,” he said simply, offering his arm.
Anne took his arm without hesitation, her fingers curling around the fine wool of his coat sleeve. The gesture was automatic, the product of years observing social niceties. Only after her hand settled in the crook of his elbow did Anne realise that Elizabeth might not have accepted so readily, might have demurred or made some teasing comment about propriety.
But it was too late to withdraw, and besides, Darcy looked so pleased by her acceptance. His arm was solid beneath her hand, strong and steady. When had she last touched anyone like this, in a gesture of companionship rather than necessity? Mrs.Jenkinson’s hands guiding her, supporting her, were entirely different. This was connection between equals, the sort of easy physical intimacy Anne had watched others share while she remained always apart, always untouchable.
