Chapter Eighteen
Elizabeth sat quietly beside the fire, her shallow breaths barely stirring the air around her.
Mrs. Jenkinson sat close by with her eternal needlework, her attention apparently fixed on the delicate stitches forming beneath her fingers.
But Elizabeth had learned these past days that the companion’s focus was never as complete as it appeared.
The woman possessed an uncanny awareness of her charge’s movements, could sense restlessness or intention with the skill of someone who had spent decades monitoring a fragile invalid’s every breath.
The afternoon sunlight slanted through the French doors, casting long rectangles across the carpet.
Beyond the glass, Elizabeth could see the path she needed to take visible as a gap between the trees at the far side of the expansive lawns.
Jane was there. So close. Close enough that Elizabeth could have walked the distance in her own body without particular effort.
But in Anne’s failing form, the journey loomed like an expedition to some distant country.
Lady Catherine had retreated to her private chambers after the dramatic confrontation about Darcy’s engagement, leaving the drawing room mercifully free of her overwhelming presence.
Only Mrs. Jenkinson remained, a silent guardian who had said nothing about the day’s events but whose posture suggested disapproval of something.
Whether she disapproved of Darcy’s choice or Anne’s apparent acceptance of it, Elizabeth could not determine.
A servant entered through the main door, approaching Mrs. Jenkinson with quiet deference. “Excuse me, ma’am. Cook wishes to consult with you about Miss de Bourgh’s dinner tray. She asks if you might come to the kitchen.”
Mrs. Jenkinson set down her needlework with visible reluctance, her gaze moving immediately to Elizabeth. “I shall return shortly, Miss de Bourgh. Do not overtax yourself while I am gone.”
Elizabeth nodded with what she hoped was appropriate meekness, watching as the companion rose and followed the servant from the room.
The door closed behind them with a soft click, and Elizabeth counted to ten before pushing herself to her feet.
Her legs trembled with the effort of standing upright without support, but she forced them to carry her toward the French doors.
The handles felt cold beneath her palms, the brass smooth from years of polishing.
Elizabeth turned them slowly, easing the doors open just enough to slip through the gap.
The afternoon air struck her face with surprising warmth after the drawing room’s stuffy interior, carrying scents of growing things and fresh earth that made her lungs ache with the desire to breathe deeply.
She stepped onto the terrace, pulling the doors closed behind her with careful quiet. Elizabeth paused there for a moment, scanning the windows above for any sign of observers. The glass reflected only sky and clouds, showing no faces watching her escape.
The lawn stretched before her, deceptively smooth in the afternoon light.
Elizabeth began walking, each step requiring deliberate concentration.
Anne’s body responded to her commands with sluggish reluctance, muscles protesting movement after hours of stillness.
Elizabeth focused on her goal, ignoring the way her heart hammered against weak ribs.
There was little cover on the first part of her route, a stretch of open lawn that left her exposed to view from any of Rosings’ many windows.
She needed to hurry, but she could not, could only walk slowly, focussing on placing one foot in front of the other.
Halfway across, her legs began to shake with genuine weakness.
The trembling started in her thighs and spread downward, making each step uncertain.
Elizabeth stumbled, catching herself before she fell entirely.
Her vision swam slightly, Anne’s weak eyes struggling to focus through exhaustion.
She stood there swaying, the parsonage still not even within sight, and felt despair rise in her throat.
What if she could not make it? What if Anne’s body gave out entirely before she reached Jane?
She reached the gap in the trees at last and stumbled between it, looking back over her shoulder towards the house.
Rosings slumbered in the afternoon sun, looking somehow ominous despite the brightness of the day, but Elizabeth could see no signs of pursuit.
Determinedly, she looked away and walked on, though she knew she would need to stop and rest soon, lest she be unable to complete her journey.
A decorative stone bench appeared through her blurred vision, positioned beneath a spreading oak tree.
Elizabeth altered her course toward it, using the last of her strength to reach the seat before her legs collapsed entirely.
She sank onto the cold stone with a gasp of relief, her chest heaving with the effort of drawing breath.
Sweat dampened her hairline despite the moderate temperature, and her hands shook visibly where they gripped the bench’s edge.
Minutes passed while Elizabeth sat there, forcing Anne’s damaged lungs to work, willing strength back into trembling muscles.
Finally, she pushed herself upright again, using the bench for support, aware that she dared not wait too long lest Mrs. Jenkinson come searching for her.
Her legs felt marginally steadier now, though they still trembled with the threat of collapse.
She took one step, then another, finding a rhythm that Anne’s body could maintain. Slow. Painfully slow. But forward.
She reached the parsonage at last, the garden’s humble beds and borders so different from Rosings’ formal grandeur.
The rose bushes formed a natural screen near the parlour window, offering concealment.
Thorns caught immediately in her dress as she stepped close, the fine muslin Anne typically wore proving far less durable than Elizabeth’s own practical gowns.
She felt the fabric tear, heard the soft ripping sound, but could not bring herself to care about damage to Anne’s clothing.
She arranged herself as comfortably as possible among the bushes, ignoring the thorns that pressed through thin fabric to prick her arms and back and leaning one shoulder against the wall for support.
From this position, she could see directly into the parlour, though at an acute angle.
Charlotte sat in her usual chair, her hands busy with some mending.
Mr. Collins moved through Elizabeth’s line of sight periodically, his heavy form instantly recognisable even in silhouette.
But no Jane. Elizabeth’s heart sank with each passing minute that failed to produce her sister’s beloved figure.
Where was she? Had she gone upstairs to rest?
Had she walked out to the village with her impostor sister, all unaware that Anne had stolen Elizabeth’s face and body?
The uncertainty made Elizabeth want to weep with frustration.
Time stretched like honey dripping from a spoon, each minute feeling like an hour.
Elizabeth’s legs ached from her awkward position among the roses.
The thorns dug deeper as she settled into the branches’ embrace.
Her back burned where fabric had torn and sharp points pressed against skin.
But she did not move. Could not move. Had come too far to abandon her position now simply because of discomfort; and besides, the thought of walking back to Rosings alone was utterly daunting.
Charlotte rose and left the parlour, her form disappearing into the house’s interior. Mr. Collins remained briefly, then followed his wife, leaving the room empty. Elizabeth stared at the vacant space through the window, her eyes burning with the intensity of her focus.
Then Jane appeared. She entered the parlour alone, moving with the quiet grace Elizabeth recognized so well.
Her fair hair caught the afternoon light streaming through the window, and her face showed that familiar expression of gentle contentment as she settled into a chair.
She picked up a book from the side table, opening it to a marked page.
Alone. Jane was blessedly alone.
Elizabeth’s fingers trembled as they made contact with the cool glass.
She scratched at the window, the sound barely audible even to her own ears.
Once. Twice. Jane did not look up, her attention fixed on the book in her lap.
Elizabeth scratched harder, her fingernails making sharper sounds against the glass.
Panic rose in her throat. What if Jane did not hear?
What if this moment passed and Elizabeth lost her chance?
Jane’s head lifted, her expression shifting from peaceful reading to curious alertness. Her gaze moved toward the window, searching for the source of the sound. Elizabeth scratched again, more desperately now, and beckoned with her free hand.
Their eyes met through the glass. Jane stared at the pale, frail woman gesturing frantically outside her window, her lovely face showing polite confusion. She rose from her chair and moved toward the window, her steps cautious, clearly uncertain about this strange visitor.
Elizabeth pressed her palm flat against the glass and continued beckoning, making urgent gestures that probably looked like madness to Jane’s eyes. But Jane kept coming, kept moving toward the window, and that was all that mattered.
Jane reached the window and paused there, one hand resting on the frame, studying the stranger outside with an expression that mixed concern with wariness.
Her lovely face showed no recognition, no spark of understanding, only polite confusion at finding a pale, frail woman crouched among the rose bushes.
Elizabeth’s throat closed around words that suddenly seemed impossible to speak.