Chapter Three #2
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.
She would 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.
They began walking, and Anne adjusted her pace to match his longer stride.
Elizabeth’s body managed it easily, her legs strong enough to keep up without struggle.
The simple pleasure of walking beside someone, of matching their rhythm, of moving together through the spring morning, was so novel that Anne had to suppress a smile.
“The fresh air is all I truly needed,” she told him warmly, glancing up at his face.
Even in her new body, taller than her old one, Anne had to look up to meet Darcy’s eyes.
He was remarkably tall, and standing this close, she could see details she had never noticed from across drawing rooms. A small scar near his left temple, nearly invisible.
The way his dark hair curled slightly at the temples despite being carefully brushed.
The exact shade of his eyes, which were not simply brown but contained flecks of amber and green when the light caught them.
She smiled at him, putting warmth into the expression. “And your company, of course. It is a pleasure to have someone to walk with.”
Darcy’s expression flickered with something Anne could not quite identify.
Surprise, certainly. Pleasure, definitely.
But also confusion, a slight furrowing of his brow that suggested he found something unexpected in her response.
He recovered quickly, his features smoothing, but Anne had seen the reaction.
“The pleasure is mine, Miss Bennet,” he said, his voice carrying that careful formality he always employed.
They walked on in silence for a few moments, the only sounds their footsteps and birdsong in the hedgerows.
Anne should say something, should fill the silence with the sort of lively conversation Elizabeth would provide.
But what would Elizabeth say? Anne knew the girl’s circumstances, her family, her situation.
She had gathered information carefully during Elizabeth’s visits to Rosings, and by asking strategic questions of Charlotte Collins.
But knowing facts was different from understanding how Elizabeth thought, how she spoke, what topics she favoured.
The silly chit. How could Elizabeth Bennet, with her adequate face and decent figure and quick wit, have failed to recognise what Darcy felt for her?
He could barely take his eyes from her when they were in the same room.
He sought her out at every opportunity, inventing excuses to walk where she walked, to sit near her.
He had even endured Lady Catherine’s tedious evening gatherings without complaint simply because Elizabeth would be present.
Anne had watched it all from her position by the fireplace, wrapped in shawls despite the warmth, largely ignored by everyone except Mrs. Jenkinson.
She had observed Darcy’s careful attention to Elizabeth’s every word, the way he leaned toward her when she spoke, as though afraid of missing a syllable.
She had seen him struggle to engage Elizabeth in conversation, offering opinions he thought might interest her, asking questions designed to draw her out.
And Elizabeth had responded with cool civility at best, with barely concealed disdain at worst. Anne had listened to her speak to Colonel Fitzwilliam about Darcy, her tone making clear she found him proud and disagreeable.
The fool. To have Darcy’s regard and treat it as though it were an annoyance rather than the prize it was.
Well. Elizabeth would have a long time to regret her blindness. She would lie in Anne’s bed at Rosings, growing weaker as Anne’s body continued its inevitable decline, and she would know that everything she had scorned was now Anne’s to claim.
She had Elizabeth’s life now. Elizabeth’s body and health and freedom. And she intended to keep them, along with everything else that should have been hers.
Including Fitzwilliam Darcy’s heart.