Chapter Twelve
The stairs seemed endless, each step requiring calculation and effort that Elizabeth’s healthy body would have managed without thought.
Mrs. Jenkinson’s grip on her elbow was firm, almost painful, guiding her upward steadily.
Elizabeth’s legs trembled with the exertion, and by the time they reached the landing, sweat had gathered at her temples despite the evening’s coolness.
Her vision swam slightly at the edges, exhaustion pulling at her consciousness.
They moved through the darkened corridor in silence, the only sounds their footsteps against polished wood and Elizabeth’s laboured breathing.
Candles flickered in wall sconces, throwing shadows that seemed to reach for them as they passed.
Elizabeth tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other, on not collapsing before they reached Anne’s bedchamber.
The door to Anne’s room stood open, and Mrs. Jenkinson guided her through with that same firm grip. The bedchamber felt suffocating after the relative openness of the parlour, all heavy curtains and ornate furniture arranged to showcase wealth rather than provide comfort.
Mrs. Jenkinson released Elizabeth’s elbow only to begin working at the fastenings of the green silk gown, her fingers deft despite their age.
Elizabeth stood swaying slightly, too exhausted to protest the intimacy, too weak to manage the task herself.
The silk whispered as it fell away, pooling at her feet.
The stays came next, efficiently unlaced, and Elizabeth gasped as the pressure released from Anne’s weak chest. She had not realised how much the garment had been restricting her already compromised breathing.
Her chemise clung to her skin, damp with perspiration, and she shivered in the room’s relative coolness.
“Arms up,” Mrs. Jenkinson instructed, her tone carrying the authority of someone accustomed to being obeyed without question.
Elizabeth raised her arms with effort, and the nightgown descended over her head, soft cotton settling against her skin. It smelled of lavender and something medicinal. Mrs. Jenkinson guided her toward the bed, one hand at her back, and Elizabeth’s legs nearly gave out during the final steps.
The mattress received her softly, goose-down feathers compressing beneath her slight weight. Mrs. Jenkinson lifted Elizabeth’s legs onto the bed, then moved to adjust the pillows behind her back. Elizabeth found herself propped into a semi-sitting position, too tired to question the arrangement.
Mrs. Jenkinson crossed to the dresser and selected a vial, uncorked it, and poured a measure of dark liquid into a glass. The smell reached Elizabeth even from several feet away, bitter and sharp with an underlying sweetness.
“You need to sleep,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, returning to the bedside with the glass extended. “This will help.”
Elizabeth stared at the offered draught, her exhausted mind struggling to assess the danger. She had been drugged before by this woman, had lost hours to unconsciousness. Every instinct screamed against accepting anything from Mrs. Jenkinson’s hand, against surrendering control.
But what choice did she have? Her borrowed body could barely remain upright. If she refused, Mrs. Jenkinson would simply force the draught down her throat as she had done before. At least accepting it with apparent cooperation might maintain some illusion of dignity.
Elizabeth reached for the glass with trembling fingers. The glass felt heavy in her weak grip. She raised it to her lips and drank, the bitter taste coating her tongue and throat despite her attempts to swallow quickly. She grimaced at the flavour, at the chalky texture that clung to her mouth.
Mrs. Jenkinson retrieved the empty glass and set it aside, then settled into the chair beside the bed. She folded her hands in her lap, preparing to wait until the draught took effect.
“Why do you help her?” Elizabeth asked, the words emerging slightly slurred as the draught began its work. Her tongue felt thick in her mouth, her thoughts starting to scatter. “You know what she has done. Know it is wrong.”
Mrs. Jenkinson’s expression remained neutral, but something flickered in her eyes.
Guilt, perhaps, or the memory of guilt long since suppressed.
“Miss Anne needed assistance. I have served the de Bourgh family for forty years, companion to Sir Lewis’s mother before she died, then his bride, now his daughter. Where else would my loyalty lie?”
“With what is right,” Elizabeth managed, though her voice had grown softer. “Not with wickedness.”
“Right and wrong are luxuries for those who can afford them,” Mrs. Jenkinson replied, and her tone carried weary resignation.
“I am a woman alone in the world, Miss Bennet. My position here is all that stands between me and destitution. Do you imagine I could refuse Miss Anne’s requests, however extraordinary, and remain employed? ”
The admission struck Elizabeth with unexpected force.
Mrs. Jenkinson was trapped too, in her own way, bound by economic necessity to serve a woman whose actions she might not approve but could not afford to oppose.
It did not excuse her participation, did not make her complicity any less reprehensible, but it added complexity to Elizabeth’s understanding.
“She learned it from her father,” Mrs. Jenkinson continued, her voice dropping to barely above a whisper.
“Sir Lewis de Bourgh. He was a gentleman scholar, interested in natural philosophy and alchemy. Spent years studying ancient texts, collecting rare ingredients, experimenting with formulations that most would dismiss as superstition.”
Elizabeth tried to focus on the words, to commit them to memory despite the growing fog in her thoughts. This was important information.
“His experiments weakened Miss Anne’s body,” Mrs. Jenkinson said, and genuine sorrow coloured her tone now.
“She would help him in his laboratory, would breathe the vapours from his distillations, would handle ingredients that left residues on her skin. The damage accumulated over years. By the time Sir Lewis realised what was happening, it was too late for both of them.”
“He died from it,” Elizabeth said, the words emerging slow and heavy. “Anne said he died from the same ingredients that weakened her.”
Mrs. Jenkinson nodded, her expression grave.
“Coughing up blood in his final months. Unable to breathe without pain. The chemicals had destroyed his lungs, poisoned his blood. And Miss Anne’s constitution, already delicate from birth, suffered similar damage.
She has been dying slowly ever since, trapped in a body that fails her more with each passing year. ”
The explanation should have inspired sympathy, Elizabeth thought distantly. Should have made her understand Anne’s desperation. But Elizabeth could summon no compassion for the woman who had violated her so completely.
“She could have chosen differently,” Elizabeth whispered. “Could have lived what life she had with honour rather than theft.”
“Perhaps,” Mrs. Jenkinson agreed quietly. “But desperation makes monsters of us all, Miss Bennet. When facing death, few of us prove as noble as we imagine we would be.”
Elizabeth wanted to argue, wanted to insist that some principles transcended even the fear of death. But the words would not come, her thoughts scattering further as the draught pulled her toward unconsciousness. Her eyelids had grown impossibly heavy, her limbs weighted with exhaustion.
The room began to blur at the edges. She could still see Mrs. Jenkinson’s face, still registered the woman’s steady watchfulness, but everything else faded into shadow. The ornate ceiling plasterwork became abstract patterns that shifted and flowed. The candlelight wavered and dimmed.
Elizabeth tried to fight the draught’s effects, tried to hold onto consciousness through sheer determination.
But Anne’s body, already exhausted beyond its capacity, surrendered to the drug with the ease of long practice.
Her muscles relaxed despite her will, her breathing deepened and slowed, her thoughts scattered beyond her ability to gather them.
Then there was only darkness, heavy and absolute.
Consciousness returned reluctantly, dragging Elizabeth up through layers of heavy darkness.
Her mouth tasted of ashes and chemicals, the bitter residue coating her tongue and throat.
Her head ached with a dull, persistent throb, and her borrowed body felt simultaneously leaden and insubstantial.
The morning light filtering through the heavy curtains struck her as unnecessarily bright, painful when she opened her eyes.
Elizabeth closed her eyes again and lay still, not yet ready to acknowledge waking. The bed felt too soft beneath her, the linens too fine. Her lungs drew shallow breaths that never quite satisfied.
Voices penetrated her consciousness. Low, coming from nearby. Elizabeth’s eyes opened to slits, careful not to move or give any sign of waking. The voices came from the dressing room, she realised, the door standing partially ajar.
Anne’s voice, using Elizabeth’s familiar tones but speaking with frustration.
“I do not understand what I am doing wrong. I smiled at him. I touched his arm. I stood close to him and made it clear I welcomed his attention. Yet Darcy looked at me as though I were some sort of curiosity rather than a woman expressing interest.”
Mrs. Jenkinson’s response came after a pause. “Perhaps you are being too obvious, Miss Anne. Too forward in your approach.”
“Too forward?” Anne’s voice rose slightly before she apparently remembered to keep her volume down. “How can I be too forward when every conduct book insists that young ladies must encourage the gentleman’s addresses? That we must show our approval through warmth and compliance?”