Chapter Nine #2
He turned toward Anne, directing his attention to the woman he believed to be his cousin, his expression radiating expectation mixed with that particular smugness he displayed when arranging matters to his satisfaction.
“You would be doing Miss de Bourgh a great service, Cousin Elizabeth. Lady Catherine has been most generous in her hospitality toward you, and it would be only proper to repay that kindness with such assistance. I am certain you will be delighted to help Miss de Bourgh in this endeavour.”
The words were phrased as though offering a choice, but Collins’s tone made clear he expected immediate agreement.
He had framed the request as a matter of propriety and gratitude, making refusal tantamount to rudeness.
Elizabeth watched Anne’s jaw tighten, saw her stolen hands curl into fists at her sides before she forced them to relax.
“How very kind of you to volunteer my assistance, Mr. Collins,” Anne said, her voice carrying an edge that Collins appeared entirely oblivious to. “Though I hesitate to impose my limited skills upon Miss de Bourgh. Surely there are more qualified instructors available.”
But before Collins could respond, before the moment could slip away, Mr. Darcy spoke from his position near the fireplace.
“I think it an excellent idea,” Darcy said, his deep voice carrying easily across the parlour.
“Miss Bennet plays with great spirit, even if her technical execution is not always precise. She would make an admirable instructor for someone just beginning to learn.” He looked at Anne directly, and Elizabeth saw something shift in his expression, something that might have been hope.
“Your willingness to share your accomplishment speaks well of your generous nature.”
Elizabeth felt a pang of bitter irony at his words. Darcy praising Anne for Elizabeth’s generosity, approving of behaviour that was entirely calculated manipulation. But she pushed the feeling aside, focused instead on the trap closing around Anne.
Anne’s face had gone pale beneath Elizabeth’s naturally healthy complexion, and Elizabeth could see her mind working frantically, searching for some escape that would not expose her ignorance or make her appear churlish.
Her gaze darted from Collins to Darcy to Lady Catherine, seeking some reprieve, but finding none.
Lady Catherine had been watching this exchange with an expression that suggested she found the entire situation both tedious and vaguely irritating. Now she waved one imperious hand, cutting off whatever protest Anne might have been formulating.
“It is settled then,” Lady Catherine declared, her voice brooking no argument.
“Anne requires instruction on the pianoforte, and Miss Bennet will provide it. They will go to the instrument now and begin immediately.” She paused, her gaze sweeping the room.
“The rest of you will remain here with me. I will not have my daughter subjected to an audience while she is learning. Such scrutiny would be most inappropriate for a young lady of her delicate sensibilities.”
The command was absolute. Elizabeth understood immediately that Lady Catherine’s concern was not for Anne’s comfort but for her pride.
She did not wish to witness her daughter’s potential failures, did not want to see Anne struggle with something she should have learned years ago.
Better to have the lesson conducted at a distance, where any mistakes could be concealed or minimised.
But the command served Elizabeth’s purposes perfectly.
Privacy meant the opportunity to speak with Anne without witnesses, without the constraint of maintaining performances for the assembled company.
Whatever happened at that pianoforte would occur away from ears that might hear accusations they would never believe.
Anne’s expression had settled into something that looked remarkably like trapped fury, but she could not refuse now. Not with Collins beaming his approval, Darcy watching with expectation, Lady Catherine commanding immediate compliance. She had been outmanoeuvred by social convention.
“Of course,” Anne said finally, the words emerging stiff and reluctant. “I would be delighted to provide instruction to Miss de Bourgh.”
The lie was obvious to Elizabeth, but Mr. Collins appeared satisfied, and Mr. Darcy nodded his approval, and Lady Catherine had already turned her attention to Colonel Fitzwilliam. The matter was settled, the trap sprung, and Elizabeth felt triumph war with apprehension.
She placed her pale hand on the arm of the settee and pushed, summoning what strength Anne’s body possessed.
The simple act of standing up required concentration, careful distribution of weight.
Elizabeth managed it, though she had to pause once standing to steady herself, one hand gripping the settee’s back while the room swayed slightly.
Across the room, Anne had begun moving toward the pianoforte with visible reluctance, Elizabeth’s body responding to her direction with easy grace.
Anne walked with her shoulders slightly hunched, her steps lacking the natural confidence Elizabeth typically displayed, and the wrongness of it all struck Elizabeth anew.
Elizabeth took her first careful step, testing her balance, feeling Anne’s legs tremble beneath her weight. Another step, and another, each one requiring deliberate effort. The distance to the pianoforte seemed vast. In Anne’s failing form, it felt like miles.
But Elizabeth continued forward, refusing to falter.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, partly from the physical exertion and partly from anticipation.
She was walking toward a confrontation with the woman who had stolen her life, toward the first opportunity to speak privately since this nightmare began.
And she was walking toward the possibility of exposing Anne’s deception, of planting seeds of doubt that might eventually grow into her salvation.
Anne fell into step beside her, their skirts rustling together in a whisper of silk and muslin that seemed unnaturally loud in the sudden quiet that had fallen over the room.
Elizabeth was acutely aware of the watching eyes tracking their progress, but she kept her attention fixed on the pianoforte ahead.
Their footsteps created an odd rhythm, Elizabeth’s slow and careful, punctuated by slight hesitations when Anne’s body threatened to betray her, while Anne’s were quicker but somehow wrong, lacking the natural confidence with which Elizabeth typically moved.
It was as though Anne had not yet learned to fully inhabit the stolen body.
Elizabeth found grim satisfaction in that observation, proof that Anne’s theft was imperfect.
Elizabeth’s fingers trembled at her sides, partly from weakness and partly from the anticipation building in her chest. Her heart hammered against her ribs.
Lady Catherine’s voice carried across the distance, holding forth to Colonel Fitzwilliam about some matter of estate management, her imperious tone suggesting she had already dismissed the two young women from her awareness.
Mr. Collins had returned to the sofa beside Charlotte.
Mr. Darcy remained near the fireplace, but Elizabeth could feel his gaze on her back.
Elizabeth’s vision swam slightly, spots dancing at the edges as the exertion caught up with her borrowed body’s limited capacity.
She forced her breathing to remain steady, refused to gasp or stagger, maintained her careful progress through sheer determination.
Anne glanced at her once, a quick sideways look that might have been concern if Elizabeth had not seen the calculation in it.
Anne was assessing whether Elizabeth would make it to the pianoforte without collapsing, whether she would embarrass herself.
But Elizabeth would not grant Anne that satisfaction. Would not falter now, not when she had engineered this opportunity so carefully.
The pianoforte stood in the corner near the tall windows, its dark wood gleaming in the candlelight, its ivory keys pristine and untouched. Elizabeth could see her reflection in the polished surface, distorted and strange, Anne de Bourgh’s pale face staring back at her.
Anne’s reflection appeared beside hers, Elizabeth’s own features twisted into an expression of barely suppressed fury that Elizabeth had never worn, would never have recognised as belonging to her.
Anne was not frightened of exposure, she realised.
She was angry, deeply and visibly angry, and the recognition sent a chill through Elizabeth’s awareness.
Anne had been outmanoeuvred, trapped by social convention and her own inability to replicate Elizabeth’s accomplishments, and she was furious about it.
Not apologetic, not remorseful, not even particularly concerned about the consequences.
Simply angry that Elizabeth had managed to create this situation.
Elizabeth’s fingers continued to tremble as they approached the final few steps.
This would be their first opportunity to speak privately since the body swap, the first moment without the entire company of Rosings observing their interactions.
Elizabeth’s mind raced with possibilities, with questions that demanded answers.
How had Anne done this? How could it be reversed? What did Anne intend now?
But beneath those practical considerations ran a deeper current of violation.
Anne had stolen her body, her life, her very identity, and she had done it with calculated precision.
Anne had been willing to trap Elizabeth in this feeble body, to condemn her to suffer while she enjoyed health and freedom, and she felt no apparent remorse.
The pianoforte bench sat between them, dark wood padded with burgundy velvet.
It was designed to accommodate a single player, perhaps with space for someone to sit close and turn pages, but not truly large enough for two people to sit comfortably side by side.
They would have to press together, share space, maintain the fiction of a music lesson while conducting a confrontation that could determine Elizabeth’s entire future.
Behind them, the murmur of conversation continued, Lady Catherine’s voice rising and falling with its characteristic authority, Mr. Collins’s occasional interjections of agreement punctuating the flow.
They were far enough away now that quiet conversation at the pianoforte would not be overheard, close enough that any raised voices would immediately draw attention.
Elizabeth drew a careful breath, steeling herself.
Anne’s expression had settled into something cold and hard, fury evident in every line of her stolen face.
They stood on opposite sides of the bench, the instrument before them a battlefield, the pristine keys waiting to expose one lie while concealing another.
Elizabeth reached for the bench with one trembling hand, preparing to lower herself onto its surface. Anne moved simultaneously, her stolen body responding with the strength and coordination Elizabeth had taken for granted, both women reaching for the same narrow seat.
Their hands touched the velvet padding at nearly the same moment, Elizabeth’s pale fingers and Anne’s healthy ones meeting on the burgundy surface.
Elizabeth looked up, met Anne’s gaze directly for the first time since recognising the truth, and saw her own eyes staring back at her filled with an anger that took her breath away.