Chapter Nine
The parlour felt so warm Elizabeth could hardly breathe, though she knew the temperature was perfectly comfortable for anyone not trapped in Anne de Bourgh’s failing body.
She had been positioned in the chair closest to the fire, Mrs. Jenkinson’s doing, and the heat combined with the weight of the green silk gown made her feel as though she might faint.
Her hands lay folded in her lap, pale and delicate and utterly wrong, while across the room her own body moved with careless freedom.
Elizabeth watched Anne cross to the window, watched her push the heavy casement further open with casual ease, watched her turn back to the company with a smile that used Elizabeth’s mouth but belonged to someone else entirely.
The movement was effortless, graceful in a way Elizabeth had taken for granted until this nightmare had stripped such capabilities away.
Anne walked without trembling, stood without needing support, breathed without effort.
She inhabited Elizabeth’s healthy body as though it had always been hers.
The injustice of it burned in Elizabeth’s chest, a fury that had no outlet, no means of expression. She could not rage, could not accuse, could not even stand and cross the room without risking collapse. Anne had imprisoned her as effectively as iron chains.
The parlour itself seemed designed to intimidate, all rich fabrics and gleaming surfaces arranged to showcase Lady Catherine’s consequence.
Ornate furniture stood in precise groupings, upholstered in burgundy and gold, each piece clearly expensive and uncomfortable.
Portraits of stern-faced ancestors lined the walls, their painted eyes seeming to follow movement with disapproval.
The pianoforte stood in the corner near the windows, its polished wood reflecting candlelight.
Elizabeth forced her attention away from Anne, forced herself to observe the others.
Charlotte sat on the sofa beside Mr. Collins, her hands folded neatly in her lap, her expression composed in that careful neutrality she had perfected since her marriage.
But Elizabeth knew Charlotte too well to be fooled by surface serenity.
Her friend’s gaze kept drifting toward Anne, toward the woman wearing Elizabeth’s face, and each time Charlotte’s brow furrowed slightly.
Charlotte sensed something wrong. The knowledge settled over Elizabeth with the weight of both hope and frustration.
Her dearest friend, who knew her better than anyone save Jane, recognised that the woman calling herself Elizabeth Bennet was somehow not herself.
But what good did that recognition do? Charlotte perhaps attributed Elizabeth’s strange behaviour to illness or some temporary alteration of mood, but she would never leap to the impossible truth.
Would never imagine that magic existed, that bodies could be swapped, that her friend had been stolen away.
Elizabeth considered it, briefly, desperately.
Could she somehow communicate with Charlotte?
Catch her eye, convey through expression or gesture that something was terribly wrong?
But even as the thought formed, Elizabeth dismissed it.
What would she say? How could she possibly explain?
Charlotte would think her mad, would alert Lady Catherine, and Elizabeth would find herself confined.
She would have to try and get Charlotte alone, somehow, but Mrs. Jenkinson was watching her with an eagle eye and Elizabeth knew it would not be tonight. If ever.
Her gaze shifted to Mr. Darcy, who stood near the fireplace in conversation with Colonel Fitzwilliam, though his attention kept drifting toward Anne.
Elizabeth watched him watch her stolen body, saw the confusion evident in his expression, the slight furrow of his brow that suggested he was trying to solve a puzzle with insufficient pieces.
He too sensed something amiss, though he clearly could not determine what troubled him.
For a wild moment, Elizabeth considered trying to communicate with him.
Darcy was intelligent, perceptive when he chose to be.
He had clearly noticed the changes in “Elizabeth’s” behaviour, was troubled by them.
Perhaps he might be convinced, might be willing to at least investigate the possibility that something extraordinary had occurred.
But no. That idea was absurd. Darcy would think her mad, would be relieved for an excuse to avoid marrying Anne, would sign whatever papers Lady Catherine put before him declaring her unfit. Elizabeth could not risk losing what little freedom she still possessed.
Lady Catherine held court from her thronelike chair.
She had been delivering opinions about parish matters to Mr. Collins for the past several minutes, her voice carrying across the room with the certainty of someone who had never been seriously contradicted.
Mr. Collins nodded eagerly at each pronouncement.
Elizabeth’s attention snapped back to the present as Lady Catherine’s voice rose slightly.
“Miss Bennet,” Lady Catherine said, the words carrying imperious command. “You will favour us with some music. I insist upon it.”
Elizabeth’s gaze flew to Anne, watched as something like panic flashed across her stolen face.
Anne had been standing near the window, engaged in some idle observation about the gardens with Maria Lucas, but now she turned to face Lady Catherine with an expression that cycled rapidly through alarm, calculation, and forced pleasantness.
“I thank you for the invitation, Lady Catherine,” Anne said, using Elizabeth’s voice but speaking with a formality Elizabeth would never have employed. “But I find I am more inclined toward conversation this evening. Perhaps another time.”
The refusal was polite enough, but Lady Catherine’s expression suggested she did not take kindly to having her commands declined. Her small eyes narrowed, her lips compressing into a thin line.
“Nonsense,” Lady Catherine declared. “You do play quite well, though you disclaim it; both my nephews have expressed pleasure in hearing you.” She gave them no opportunity to agree, but carried on. “You will be departing Kent soon enough; be so good as to favour us with one last performance.”
Anne’s fingers began fidgeting with Elizabeth’s skirts, plucking at the muslin in a gesture of nervous agitation.
Anne was frightened, and not simply of Lady Catherine’s displeasure.
Her gaze darted toward the pianoforte as though it were an instrument of torture, and her face had gone pale beneath the healthy colour Elizabeth’s complexion naturally carried.
Understanding crashed over Elizabeth with sudden, brilliant clarity.
Anne could not play. Had never learned the instrument, had spent her youth too ill to sit for the hours of practice required to develop even basic competence.
Elizabeth had not considered the significance until now, but watching Anne’s panic made everything clear.
The witch who had studied alchemy with her father, who had learned to brew potions powerful enough to swap bodies, who had planned this theft with meticulous care, had overlooked one crucial detail.
She did not possess Elizabeth’s accomplishments, could not replicate Elizabeth’s abilities, could only inhabit her body without being able to truly become her.
Elizabeth felt something like hope stir in her chest for the first time since waking. Anne had made a mistake. Had revealed a weakness.
Her mind raced, calculating possibilities, weighing risks.
She could expose Anne here, now, by insisting she play.
The impostor would be forced to either refuse repeatedly, drawing Lady Catherine’s ire and perhaps raising questions, or attempt to play and reveal her complete lack of skill.
Either outcome would create confusion, would plant seeds of doubt.
But Elizabeth needed to be careful. Needed to create the opportunity without appearing to force it, without drawing suspicion to herself.
Anne’s panic was already visible to anyone who cared to look.
Elizabeth simply needed to provide the perfect excuse for the exposure to continue…
and, too, this might be her only chance to force Anne to speak to her directly.
She could potentially gather valuable information.
Elizabeth did not allow herself time to reconsider. She drew a careful breath, summoning Anne’s soft, hesitant voice, and spoke before her courage could falter.
“I have always wanted to learn the pianoforte,” she said, pitching her voice to carry just enough to be heard. “Perhaps Miss Bennet might be kind enough to give me a lesson? I should so like to understand the basics of the instrument.”
The request hung in the air for a moment, and Elizabeth watched Anne’s face cycle through shock, alarm, and barely suppressed fury in rapid succession.
But before Anne could formulate a response, before she could find some polite way to refuse, Mr. Collins inserted himself into the conversation with his characteristic lack of awareness.
“What an excellent notion!” Mr. Collins exclaimed, rising from the sofa with enough enthusiasm that Charlotte had to steady herself.
He clasped his hands together, his round face beaming.
“Such humility, Miss de Bourgh, to offer one of lesser station an opportunity to instruct you! And how generous it would be of my cousin to provide instruction. Miss Bennet is quite accomplished at the pianoforte, though I confess her performance lacks the superior elegance one might find in young ladies of higher station.”