Chapter Three
Anne de Bourgh sat across from Charlotte Collins, fingers wrapped around a teacup that felt startlingly light, unable to keep the delighted smile from her face.
Everything felt light. Everything felt possible.
After years of weakness and breathlessness, she inhabited a body that hummed with vitality, that moved without protest, that simply worked.
Anne set down her cup and reached for another piece of toast. Her second.
She had already eaten one, along with a coddled egg and two rashers of bacon, and her stomach welcomed more rather than rebelling.
The novelty made her want to laugh. For years, Mrs. Jenkinson had coaxed her to eat, presenting delicate morsels on fine china, and Anne had rarely managed more than two bites before nausea overwhelmed her. Now she could eat. Wanted to eat.
She spread butter across the warm bread, watching it melt. Her hand moved smoothly, without tremor, without the weakness that had made even holding a butter knife frustrating. She added a generous spoonful of blackberry jam and bit into the toast with genuine appetite.
The taste exploded across her tongue, rich and satisfying. Her body did not revolt. Her stomach did not cramp. She simply ate, like any normal person, and it was glorious.
Anne chewed slowly, savouring each bite, while Charlotte made polite conversation about the weather and the previous evening’s dinner at Rosings.
Charlotte had clearly been concerned about “Elizabeth’s” sudden illness, had fussed over her when she returned to consciousness late last night.
Anne had played her part well. Confused, grateful, claiming the headache had passed but she needed sleep.
Charlotte had required little convincing.
Her hand drifted upward to touch the hair that now framed her face.
Elizabeth’s hair. The curls felt impossibly thick beneath her fingertips, glossy and heavy, so different from the thin strands that had hung limp against her own skull.
Anne wound one curl around her finger, feeling its weight, its resilience.
She had spent years staring at hair that grew more sparse with each passing month, another visible marker of her body’s failure.
But this hair was magnificent, dark and lustrous.
“I am glad to see your appetite has returned,” Charlotte observed. “You gave us quite a fright yesterday. I nearly sent for the apothecary, but you seemed to improve once you had rested.”
“I feel quite recovered,” Anne assured her. Elizabeth’s body did feel recovered. Better than Anne’s body had felt in as long as she could remember. “I cannot account for what came over me, but it has passed entirely.”
Charlotte poured more tea, the domestic ritual soothing.
Anne watched her hostess, managing her household with quiet efficiency.
A country clergyman’s wife, settled and content.
So different from what Anne had endured, trapped at Rosings under her mother’s oppressive scrutiny, with only Mrs. Jenkinson for company.
“Do you think you shall take your usual walk this morning?” Charlotte asked. “The weather is fine, and I know how you value your daily exercise. Though perhaps you should rest today.”
The question caught Anne unprepared. Walk?
Alone? The idea was so foreign that her first instinct was to refuse.
She had not walked anywhere alone... ever.
Mrs. Jenkinson accompanied her everywhere, hovering like an anxious shadow, ready to catch her if she stumbled.
Even the short walks Anne occasionally managed in Rosings’ gardens left her breathless and weak.
“I am not certain I should...” Anne began.
Then she stopped herself. She was not that Anne anymore.
She was Elizabeth Bennet, who walked miles daily, who thought nothing of tramping across fields, whose idea of a pleasant morning included vigorous exercise.
Elizabeth, who had walked three miles through muddy fields to reach Netherfield when her sister fell ill, arriving with petticoats six inches deep in mud and cheeks glowing with health, a picture that had struck Fitzwilliam Darcy strongly enough that he had a smile on his face when he recounted the story to Colonel Fitzwilliam one afternoon in Rosings’ parlour, both of them oblivious to Anne sitting in the corner listening to their every word.
Anne could walk now. Could go where she pleased, when she pleased, without Mrs. Jenkinson’s constant presence, without her mother’s disapproving commentary, without needing to rest every few yards. She could walk alone, truly alone, for the first time in her life.
The realisation sent a thrill through her.
“That is, I am not certain I should deny myself the pleasure,” Anne corrected smoothly, smiling at Charlotte. “You are right, the weather is too fine to waste indoors. A walk will be delightful.”
Charlotte’s expression shifted slightly, a small crease appearing between her brows. The look lasted only a moment before politeness smoothed it away, but Anne had seen it. Confusion, perhaps. Or puzzlement at “Elizabeth’s” unusual enthusiasm for what had been a daily routine.
Anne cursed herself. She must be more careful. Elizabeth would not speak of morning walks with such eager anticipation. For Elizabeth, they were habit, pleasant but unremarkable. Only someone denied such freedom would respond with barely contained excitement.
“I mean, the fresh air will do me good,” Anne amended. “Clear away the cobwebs from yesterday’s illness.”
“Of course,” Charlotte agreed, though something in her gaze remained uncertain. “I only hope you will not overtax yourself. Perhaps a shorter walk today?”
“Perhaps,” Anne said noncommittally. She would walk as far as she pleased. Let Elizabeth’s friends believe her habits had changed. People changed. If Elizabeth Bennet became more enthusiastic about exercise, who would seriously question it?
Anne drained her tea and set down the cup.
Through the window, she could see the lane leading from the parsonage toward Rosings and the surrounding countryside.
Trees lined the way, their branches heavy with spring leaves, the morning sun dappling the ground with light and shadow.
She could walk there. Could walk anywhere.
The world opened before her, vast and accessible in a way it had never been.
And somewhere in that world was Mr. Darcy, who loved Elizabeth Bennet.
Who had loved her without declaring himself because Elizabeth had been too blind to recognise his regard.
The silly chit. Anne had seen it clearly, had watched him track Elizabeth’s movements, had noted how his expression softened when he looked at her. Pathetically obvious.
But Elizabeth was out of the way now, locked in Anne’s dying body at Rosings. And Anne sat here preparing to walk in the spring sunshine, free at last to pursue the life she deserved. The life that should have been hers.
Anne rose from the table, feeling her legs steady beneath her. “I think I shall go and prepare for my walk,” she said to Charlotte. “Thank you for breakfast.”
Charlotte smiled, nodding, though that small crease of puzzlement remained. Anne would need to be more careful, would need to perfect her performance. But she had time. She had all the time in the world now.
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.