Chapter Fifteen #2
So Anne had needed Elizabeth’s hair, had somehow obtained it without Elizabeth’s knowledge or consent.
Had collected it carefully and stored it until the moment was right.
The violation of that made Elizabeth’s stomach turn, the idea of Anne watching her, waiting for an opportunity to steal something so personal.
The final line caught Elizabeth’s attention, written in slightly darker ink as though Anne had pressed harder on the pen: “A shaving of bezoar steadies.”
Bezoar. Elizabeth stared at the word, trying to recall where she had seen it before.
In one of her father’s books, perhaps. She would have to research, somehow.
Perhaps a favour she might ask of Colonel Fitzwilliam, she thought with a flash of dark humour, since he had volunteered to help her.
But even with the bezoar, the other components remained impossibly out of reach.
Saffron cost more by weight than gold; ambergris and pearl powder required wealth Elizabeth did not possess in this borrowed body or her own.
She had found no money in Anne’s room during her search and asking Lady Catherine for large sums of money would lead to questions she could not answer.
Spirits of wine well-rectified would need to be purchased from an apothecary who would certainly question why Miss Anne de Bourgh required such a substance.
The journal trembled in Elizabeth’s grasp as the full magnitude of her predicament crashed over her.
She had found the recipe, yes, had discovered the formula Anne had used to trap her in this dying body.
But knowing what was needed did not mean she could obtain it.
The ingredients were too rare, too expensive, too far beyond her reach in her current state.
She could barely walk across a room without assistance.
How could she possibly acquire exotic substances from distant lands?
Elizabeth’s throat closed around a sob she would not let escape. She had been so certain that finding the recipe would provide hope, would give her a path forward. But this list of impossible ingredients felt more like proof of her helplessness than a solution to her nightmare.
Her mind turned to the love potion entry, seeking distraction from her despair.
Why had Anne not simply used that on Darcy from the beginning?
Why go through the elaborate scheme of swapping bodies when a simpler spell could have secured his devotion?
But even as Elizabeth formed the question, understanding followed.
Anne’s body was dying. What use was securing Darcy’s magical devotion if she would die before enjoying more than a brief taste of the life she craved?
The body swap solved that problem. Gave Anne not just Darcy’s love but decades to enjoy it, to live as mistress of Pemberley, to bear children and establish herself completely.
Using the love potion afterward would simply ensure Darcy never questioned his choice, never wondered at the changes in his wife’s character, never suspected that the woman he had married was not who he thought.
Elizabeth reached up with one trembling hand and touched Anne’s hair, feeling the brittle texture of locks that had been cut short months ago.
Had Anne cut a lock of her hair while Elizabeth slept at the parsonage?
Had she crept into the room Elizabeth shared with Maria Lucas and stolen what she needed under cover of darkness?
Or had she found some other opportunity, some moment when Elizabeth’s attention was elsewhere and her hair accessible?
The violation of it made nausea rise in Elizabeth’s throat.
Anne had stalked her, had watched and waited and chosen her moment with calculated precision.
Had studied Elizabeth’s habits and routines, had learned when she would be vulnerable, had planned every detail of the theft down to obtaining hair without her victim’s knowledge.
The level of premeditation required for such wickedness made Elizabeth’s skin crawl with revulsion.
She looked down at her hands, at the thin fingers and pronounced veins that belonged to Anne de Bourgh’s failing body.
This flesh had prepared the potion that doomed them both.
These hands had measured out exotic ingredients, had cut hair from two heads, had mixed the draught that would facilitate the exchange.
And now, Elizabeth’s own healthy hands were being used by the woman who had stolen them, were touching things and people and going about daily activities as though they had every right to the body they inhabited.
Elizabeth closed the journal with shaking hands, the leather binding settling together with a soft sound that seemed too final.
She had the recipe now. Had the knowledge she needed.
But knowledge without means was just another form of torture, showing her exactly what she needed while keeping it perpetually out of reach.
The candle on the bedside table guttered slightly, throwing strange shadows across the ornate ceiling plasterwork.
Elizabeth watched the patterns shift and flow, her eyes burning with tears she would not shed.
She needed to think. Needed to plan. The ingredients might be rare but they were not impossible.
Anne had obtained them somehow, had gathered everything required for the potion despite her own physical limitations.
If Anne could do it, then Elizabeth could as well.
But Anne had possessed time, years to plan and prepare and collect what she needed.
Elizabeth had months at best before this failing body gave out entirely.
Weeks, perhaps, if the coughing fits grew worse or if Mrs. Jenkinson decided more drastic measures were required to keep her quiet.
Every day that passed was one less day to find a solution, one more day for Anne to secure her position as Mrs. Darcy, and to permanently bind Darcy to her with the love potion.
Elizabeth had never for a moment desired Darcy’s love. But he had given it to her nonetheless, she was coming to realise, and the thought of Anne stealing it as she had stolen Elizabeth’s body was a violation that must be prevented, if she possibly could.
Elizabeth pushed herself upright with effort and climbed off the bed, bending to tuck the journal back beneath the mattress. The leather binding slid into darkness, concealed once more from casual observation. No one must know she had found it, had read its contents, understood what Anne had done.
She lay back against the pillows again, arranging Anne’s weak body in a position that allowed easier breathing.
The ceiling plasterwork swam slightly in her vision, exhaustion pulling at her consciousness despite the urgency of her situation.
But sleep would not come easily tonight, Elizabeth knew.
Her mind raced too quickly, turning over possibilities and obstacles, searching desperately for some path forward through the impossibility that surrounded her.
Jane is here. That thought anchored her, gave her something solid to cling to in the swirling chaos of her predicament.
Jane would help. Would believe her when she explained what had happened, would assist in whatever way possible.
Together, they would find a solution. Would obtain the ingredients somehow, would mix the potion, would reverse this nightmare and stop Anne from marrying Mr. Darcy in Elizabeth’s body.
Elizabeth simply had to hold on long enough. Had to survive in this failing body until they could execute the reversal. Had to endure Mrs. Jenkinson’s medicines and Lady Catherine’s domineering presence and the constant weakness that threatened to drag her down into darkness.
She had done difficult things before. Had walked three miles through mud to reach Jane’s sickbed at Netherfield.
Had rejected Mr. Collins despite her mother’s fury and her family’s precarious situation.
Had maintained her principles and independence in the face of pressure from every direction.
This was simply another impossible situation to navigate, another challenge to overcome through determination and clever planning.
The candle flame steadied, burning straight and true in air that had gone still. Elizabeth watched it, letting the light anchor her thoughts, and began to plan.