Chapter Seven #2
The maid curtseyed one final time and departed, closing the door softly.
Mrs. Jenkinson moved to follow, pausing at the threshold to deliver one last pointed look.
“I will return in a few minutes to escort you downstairs. Do not attempt to leave this room without me.” Then she too was gone, the door clicking shut with finality, and Elizabeth found herself blessedly, briefly alone.
She remained frozen for several heartbeats, listening intently. Mrs. Jenkinson’s footsteps receded down the corridor, growing fainter, then disappearing entirely.
Elizabeth moved.
Her first steps were unsteady, Anne’s body protesting the sudden demand.
The elaborate dress hampered her movement, the heavy silk catching around her legs, the stays restricting her breathing more than she was accustomed to.
But she forced herself forward, crossing to the nearest chest of drawers with determination that exceeded her physical capability.
The first drawer yielded nothing of interest. Stockings, carefully folded. Gloves arranged by colour. Small clothes so delicate it seemed they might tear at a harsh word. Elizabeth pushed past them with trembling fingers, searching for anything that might explain Anne’s methods.
The second drawer was equally disappointing. More clothing, some letters tied with ribbon that Elizabeth did not have time to read, a few pieces of inexpensive jewellery that must hold sentimental value. Nothing that would help.
Elizabeth’s frustration mounted with each fruitless search.
She moved to the wardrobe, pulling open the doors and running her hands along the shelves, disturbing neat stacks of folded garments, feeling behind them for hidden compartments.
Her arms ached with the effort, trembling from exertion that should have been trivial.
She wanted to scream at this body’s weakness, at its betrayal, at its absolute refusal to do what she needed.
But screaming would accomplish nothing except perhaps bringing Mrs. Jenkinson back earlier than expected. Elizabeth forced herself to breathe slowly, to think rather than simply search in mounting panic. Where would she keep secrets she did not want her mother or the servants to discover?
Elizabeth’s gaze swept the room, cataloguing the furniture with new attention.
The chest of drawers, already searched. The wardrobe, now in disarray from her rummaging.
The nightstand held only a book of sermons and a candle.
The writing desk in the corner beckoned, but Elizabeth had explored it briefly during her first desperate exploration after waking and found nothing of note.
It was too delicate a piece to have hidden compartments.
The dressing table. Elizabeth turned toward it, studying its ornate construction with fresh eyes.
It was an expensive piece, French perhaps, with delicate legs and elaborate carving along the drawer fronts.
The sort of furniture that might contain hidden compartments, secret drawers meant for concealing love letters or other private items.
Elizabeth crossed to it on unsteady legs, sinking onto the padded stool before her knees could give out entirely.
She ran her hands over the smooth wood surface, feeling for irregularities, for catches or springs that might reveal hidden spaces.
The main drawers opened easily, revealing the usual contents.
Combs and brushes. Small bottles of perfume.
But at the very back of the centre drawer, Elizabeth’s questing fingers found something unexpected. Metal, where there should have been only wood. She put pressure on the knob, trying first a push, then a pull, and felt a click.
A small drawer sprang open, so cleverly concealed that Elizabeth would never have found it without deliberate searching. Inside lay a slim leather-bound journal, its cover worn and stained with frequent handling.
Elizabeth’s hands shook as she lifted it free.
The book felt heavier than its size warranted, as though the knowledge contained within possessed physical weight.
She opened it to a random page and found herself staring at cramped script documenting ingredients and measurements, instructions for preparation and timing. A recipe for some concoction.
She flipped back to the beginning and found an inscription in a different hand, firmer and more masculine than the cramped writing that filled the subsequent pages. “To my dearest Anne, from your devoted father. May these secrets bring you the power to shape your own destiny.”
Sir Lewis de Bourgh. Had he been the possessor of this alchemical knowledge, passing it on to his daughter before his death?
Elizabeth’s heart hammered against her ribs as she began turning pages, scanning recipe after recipe.
A draught to induce deep sleep. A tonic to enhance beauty.
A potion to ease pain. And then, more disturbing entries.
A philtre to inspire love. A powder to cause prophetic dreams. A tea to weaken the will.
Elizabeth’s fingers flew through the pages, searching for what she knew must be here. The spell or potion Anne had used to steal her body. There had to be instructions, had to be some record of how it was accomplished.
The dinner gong sounded from somewhere below, its deep tone reverberating through the house. Elizabeth nearly dropped the journal, her heart leaping into her throat. How long had she been searching? How many minutes remained before Mrs. Jenkinson returned?
She snapped the journal closed and looked frantically around the room for a hiding place, not wanting to put it back in the secret drawer.
Under the mattress, she decided, the first solution that occurred to her panicked mind.
Elizabeth crossed to the bed and shoved the journal beneath the thick mattress, pushing it as far toward the centre as her arm could reach.
Not a perfect hiding place, but it would have to suffice.
Her hands were still shaking as she straightened, smoothing down the green silk that had become rumpled during her frantic searching. She could feel sweat beading at her temples despite the room’s relative coolness, could feel her heart still racing.
But she had found what she sought. It seemed Anne had documented everything carefully, had kept records like any good scholar. And in doing so, perhaps she had left Elizabeth a path forward.
Elizabeth moved toward the door, her steps more steady now despite her body’s weakness.
She would go down to dinner. Would play her role as Anne de Bourgh convincingly enough to avoid suspicion.
Would smile at Lady Catherine and tolerate whatever company was present and give no hint that anything was amiss.
And later, she would study that journal properly. Would figure out how Anne had done this to her. Would find a way to obtain what she needed and reverse this nightmare.
She was not defeated yet.
The door opened just as Elizabeth reached it, Mrs. Jenkinson’s pinched face appearing in the gap. The companion’s eyes swept over Elizabeth with sharp assessment, taking in her appearance, searching for any sign of disruption or mischief.
“You look presentable,” Mrs. Jenkinson said finally, her tone suggesting this was qualified approval at best. “Come along then.”
Elizabeth stepped through the door, forcing her expression into something approaching serenity despite the tumult of her thoughts. She had hope now, however slight. And she had determination enough for ten women, even if trapped in a body that could barely manage a flight of stairs.
Anne de Bourgh had made a grave mistake in leaving that journal where it could be found. And Elizabeth intended to make her pay dearly for it.