Chapter Four #2
Mrs. Jenkinson tucked the edges of the blankets firmly beneath the mattress on either side, creating a neat cocoon that trapped Elizabeth’s arms at her sides.
The gesture was methodical, the sort of thing the companion had likely done thousands of times before, settling an invalid for rest. But the effect was profoundly different when the person being tucked in possessed full consciousness and fierce objection to the treatment.
Elizabeth felt reduced to helplessness not by choice but by the betrayal of this borrowed body.
She could feel her heart hammering against her ribs, could feel sweat dampening her hairline despite the chill that had begun creeping through her limbs, but she could not summon the strength to free herself from something as simple as firmly tucked-in bedclothes.
The humiliation of it burned almost as fiercely as her fear.
“Let me up.” Elizabeth’s voice emerged steady despite everything, carrying the authority she would have used with an obstinate servant at Longbourn. “I will not be restrained like this. I have done nothing to deserve such treatment.”
Mrs. Jenkinson straightened, smoothing her grey skirts. “You’ve exhausted yourself. Rest is what you require now, not further agitation.”
But Elizabeth’s mind was racing too quickly for rest, piecing together fragments of information into a coherent whole.
Anne had done this. Anne de Bourgh, whom everyone believed too weak and sickly to harm anyone, had learned magic from her dead father.
Sir Lewis de Bourgh had been an eccentric, Elizabeth remembered hearing Lady Catherine mention once, saying dismissively that he had wasted time on peculiar studies.
But those studies had clearly delved into something darker than mere eccentricity.
He had learned witchcraft, had practiced it, and had taught it to his daughter.
“How did she do it?” Elizabeth asked, though she already suspected Mrs. Jenkinson would not answer. “What spell or potion could possibly achieve such a thing?”
Mrs. Jenkinson’s expression remained carefully neutral. “I am not privy to the details of Miss Anne’s studies. I only know what little I’ve gathered from caring for her all these years.”
“Then tell me how to reverse it.” Elizabeth fought to keep desperation from her voice, to maintain some semblance of dignity despite her position. “There must be a way to undo what she’s done. If there’s magic to swap bodies, there must be magic to swap them back.”
For a long moment, Mrs. Jenkinson said nothing. She stood at the bedside, her hands folded at her waist, her expression unreadable. When she finally spoke, her voice carried a finality that sent ice through Elizabeth’s veins.
“It cannot be reversed. What is done is done.”
The words hung in the air between them, absolute and damning.
Elizabeth studied Mrs. Jenkinson’s face, searching for some sign of deception, some indication that the companion was lying to discourage her from attempting to reclaim her body.
But the woman’s features remained smooth, revealing nothing beyond calm certainty.
Was she lying? Elizabeth could not tell.
Mrs. Jenkinson’s years of service in this household had clearly taught her to school her expression, to present whatever face the situation required.
She might be telling the truth. Or she might be protecting Anne’s theft by convincing Elizabeth that resistance was futile.
“I don’t believe you,” Elizabeth said, though uncertainty gnawed at her confidence. “You’re trying to make me give up hope. But I won’t. I’ll find a way to undo this, with or without your help.”
Mrs. Jenkinson’s lips compressed into a thin line.
She turned away from the bed without responding, crossing to the dressing table where various bottles and vials stood in neat rows.
Elizabeth watched her select one of the bottles, a dark glass container that looked almost black in the dim light.
Mrs. Jenkinson removed the stopper with a soft pop and poured a measure of liquid into a small crystal glass.
“What is that?” Elizabeth demanded as Mrs. Jenkinson approached the bed with the glass in hand.
“Something to help you rest,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied calmly. “You’ve had a severe shock, and your body cannot tolerate such strain. This will ease your distress.”
“I don’t want it.” Elizabeth tried to edge away as much as the tight bedclothes allowed, which was not far at all. “I don’t need your medicine. I need answers, I need help, I need my own body returned to me.”
Mrs. Jenkinson set the glass on the bedside table and bent over Elizabeth, her hands moving to adjust the pillows behind her head.
The gesture seemed helpful at first, arranging Elizabeth into a more upright position, until Elizabeth realised the companion was positioning her for easier access.
Mrs. Jenkinson retrieved the glass and held it near Elizabeth’s mouth.
“Drink this,” she said, her voice brooking no argument.
“No.” Elizabeth pressed her lips together firmly, turning her head away from the proffered glass. “I will not drink something when I don’t know what it contains. You could be poisoning me.”
“If I wished to poison you, I could do so far more easily than this.” Mrs. Jenkinson’s tone remained infuriatingly patient. “This is merely a sedative, something to calm your nerves and help you sleep. Miss Anne takes it regularly. The dose is already measured; you need only drink it.”
But Elizabeth had no intention of being drugged into compliance.
Whatever was in that glass, whether sedative or something worse, it would render her even more helpless than she already was.
She needed to remain conscious, needed to think clearly, needed to find some way out of this nightmare.
She kept her face turned away, her lips sealed against the glass’s approach.
Mrs. Jenkinson sighed, a sound of weary resignation. “I had hoped you would be sensible about this.”
Before Elizabeth could react, Mrs. Jenkinson’s free hand shot out and pinched her nose closed, blocking her airway completely.
Elizabeth’s eyes widened in shock. She tried to twist away, but the companion’s grip was iron firm, and Elizabeth’s weakened body could not break it.
Seconds passed, and her lungs began to burn with the need for air.
She held out as long as she could, stubbornness warring with biology, but finally her body betrayed her. Her mouth opened in a desperate gasp.
Mrs. Jenkinson immediately brought the glass to her lips and tipped it, pouring bitter liquid directly into Elizabeth’s mouth.
Elizabeth tried to spit it out, but Mrs. Jenkinson’s hand clamped over her mouth and nose together, forcing her to either swallow or choke.
The liquid burned down her throat, coating her tongue with a taste like charcoal and rotting flowers.
She coughed violently once Mrs. Jenkinson released her, but the damage was done. The medicine was inside her.
“There,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, setting the empty glass aside and wiping her hands with a handkerchief she produced from her pocket. “That wasn’t so terrible, was it? You’ll feel better shortly.”
Elizabeth wanted to rage at her, to demand why she would force such treatment on someone who had done nothing wrong, but her tongue felt suddenly thick in her mouth.
The room had begun to soften at the edges, the solid lines of furniture blurring into gentler curves.
A strange heaviness crept through her limbs, different from the weakness she’d felt before.
This was a weight that pressed down from inside, slowing her thoughts, making even the act of keeping her eyes open require conscious effort.
“What did you give me?” The words slurred together despite her attempt to speak clearly.
“Something to help you rest,” Mrs. Jenkinson repeated. She was moving around the room now, though Elizabeth could no longer track her movements properly. The companion seemed to blur and multiply, her grey dress fragmenting into multiple overlapping images.
Elizabeth tried to fight it, tried to hold onto consciousness through sheer determination.
But the drug was too strong, and Anne’s body too weak.
The darkness gathering at the edges of her vision began creeping inward, consuming the room piece by piece.
She could feel herself slipping away, falling into a void that had nothing to do with natural sleep.
Why? The question formed in her mind even as thought became increasingly difficult.
Why was Mrs. Jenkinson so loyal to Anne’s wicked scheme?
What hold did the girl have over her companion that would make a woman participate in such evil?
Was it merely long habit, years of service transforming into blind devotion?
Or did Anne possess some other leverage, some threat or promise that ensured Mrs. Jenkinson’s cooperation?
Elizabeth could not even make her lips form the questions.
The darkness claimed her entirely, pulling her down into depths where questions could not follow.
Her last sensation was of the bitter taste still coating her tongue, a reminder that she was now at the complete mercy of people who had already demonstrated they possessed none.
The room faded to black, and Elizabeth knew nothing more.