Chapter Twenty-Three #2
“She is out shopping with my mother and aunt,” Jane replied, hearing the weariness in her own voice. “They have gone to Bond Street to purchase wedding clothes. I expect them back within the hour, if you would care to wait.”
The Colonel moved further into the room, declining the chair she gestured towards in favour of standing near enough that his attention felt almost uncomfortably focused. His eyes searched her face with the same perceptiveness she had noticed during their brief acquaintance in Kent.
“Miss Bennet,” he said again, his tone carrying genuine worry. “Forgive my frankness, but you seem troubled. Are you quite well?”
Jane’s throat tightened around denials that would not come.
She was not well. Had not been well since receiving Elizabeth’s desperate letter, since discovering the impossible truth about the body swap, since beginning this frantic race against time to save her sister.
Her fingers found the handkerchief tucked in her sleeve and worried at its embroidered edge.
“I am well enough,” she managed, though the words emerged thin and unconvincing. “Merely tired. Wedding preparations are more exhausting than I anticipated.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s expression suggested he did not believe her for a moment, but his courtesy prevented him from calling her a liar outright.
Instead, he moved to the chair she had indicated and settled into it with the purposeful air of someone who had decided to stay until he got proper answers.
“Miss Bennet, I hope you will forgive me if I presume upon our acquaintance,” he said, his voice carrying gentle firmness.
“We do not know each other well, I grant you. But I consider myself a friend to your family, and I confess I am concerned by what I see before me. You have dark circles beneath your eyes that speak of lost sleep. Your hands have not ceased their fidgeting since I entered the room. And unless I am very much mistaken, you are on the verge of tears.”
The accuracy of his observations made Jane’s eyes burn. She blinked hard against them, horrified at the thought of weeping in front of a gentleman she barely knew. But something in his manner invited confidence, suggested that he genuinely wished to help rather than simply satisfying curiosity.
“There is nothing you can do,” Jane said, defeat colouring the words. “The matter is beyond anyone’s ability to assist.”
“Try me,” Colonel Fitzwilliam replied, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees and his hands clasped before him.
“You might be surprised what a man with my connexions can accomplish when properly motivated. Is there anything I might do for you? You need only name the favour, Miss Bennet. I am entirely at your service.”
The sincerity in his voice struck Jane with unexpected force.
She had not expected kindness, had not anticipated that anyone outside her immediate family might offer genuine help.
The temptation to unburden herself rose swift and powerful, the urge to tell someone the whole impossible story and let them share the weight of this terrible knowledge.
But caution held her tongue. What if he thought her mad? What if he dismissed her claims as hysteria or delusion? Worse, what if he believed her and decided the situation required intervention from authorities, from physicians who would examine Elizabeth in Anne’s body and declare her insane?
Yet she needed that bezoar. Needed it desperately, and her uncle’s resources had proven insufficient. Perhaps Colonel Fitzwilliam, with his aristocratic connexions and military contacts, might succeed where Mr. Gardiner had failed.
“There is one thing,” Jane said slowly, choosing each word with painful care. “Though I confess it will sound quite strange.”
“I am listening,” the Colonel replied.
Jane’s fingers twisted the handkerchief harder. “I need a shaving from a bezoar stone. A very small amount would suffice, but it must be genuine. I have been trying to obtain one through my uncle’s merchant connexions, but no one seems to have such a thing available.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s eyebrows rose slightly, but he did not laugh or question her sanity. Instead, he sat back in his chair with thoughtful expression, his gaze distant as though mentally reviewing his available resources.
“A bezoar,” he repeated, testing the word. “That is indeed an unusual request, Miss Bennet. May I ask what purpose you require it for?”
“I cannot say,” Jane replied, desperation leaking into her voice.
“I know that sounds ridiculous. I know you have every right to refuse such a strange favour without proper explanation. But I promise you, the need is genuine and urgent. If you can help me obtain this ingredient, you will be doing a greater service than you can possibly imagine.”
The Colonel studied her face for a long moment. Then, unexpectedly, he smiled with warmth that transformed his features.
“When a lady asks for an antidote,” he said, rising from his chair with decisive movements, “I do not enquire after the poison. My father keeps a cabinet of curiosities at Matlock House that includes, unless I am very much mistaken, a bezoar stone from Persia. I cannot promise it will be suitable for your purposes, but I will call on him this very day and secure a shaving if it can be managed.”
Relief crashed over Jane with such force that her knees weakened, and she had to grip the chair’s arm to remain standing. “Thank you,” she whispered, her voice breaking. “Thank you so much. You cannot know what this means to me.”
“Perhaps not,” Colonel Fitzwilliam agreed, moving towards the door purposefully. “But I trust that the need is genuine, and that is sufficient. I will return tomorrow with your bezoar shaving, Miss Bennet. You have my word.”
He paused at the threshold, turning back with expression that had shifted to something more searching. “May I ask one question, though? Not about the bezoar, but about a related matter that has troubled me since our meeting in Kent.”
Jane nodded, uncertain what he might ask but too grateful to refuse.
“You are the Miss Bennet who was separated from Mr. Bingley by my cousin’s interference, are you not?” the Colonel asked. “The lady whose heart Darcy’s meddling may have broken?”
The question struck Jane with unexpected force, not because it pained her but because it did not. When had she last thought of Mr. Bingley? When had his defection last caused her genuine pain rather than merely abstract regret?
Not since Elizabeth’s letter had arrived. Not since discovering the body swap and throwing all her energy into saving her sister. Mr. Bingley had simply vanished from her thoughts, replaced entirely by more pressing concerns.
“I was,” Jane said slowly, testing the truth of her own words. “But I confess, Colonel, that all my thoughts are for my sister’s happiness now. Whatever pain I felt over Mr. Bingley’s departure has been quite eclipsed by more immediate concerns.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s expression brightened, his smile returning with increased warmth.
Something in his eyes suggested he had asked for reasons of his own, that her answer pleased him in ways that had nothing to do with abstract curiosity.
Jane felt heat rise in her cheeks as understanding dawned, felt her heart stutter with realisation that the Colonel’s interest might extend beyond simple family connexion.
But there was no time for such considerations now. Elizabeth needed her focused, not distracted by the unexpected stirring of her own heart.
“I am glad to hear that,” the Colonel said, his tone suggesting layers of meaning Jane had no time to unpack. “I will call tomorrow with your bezoar shaving, Miss Bennet. Until then, I hope you will rest and take better care of yourself. Your sister needs you well, I think.”
He departed with another bow, leaving Jane alone in the suddenly quiet parlour.
She sank back into her chair, her legs finally giving way, and pressed shaking hands to her face.
Relief warred with new anxiety in her chest, the joy of finally obtaining the bezoar tempered by acute awareness of how little time remained.
Tomorrow. The Colonel would return tomorrow with the final ingredient.
Which meant she would have one day to brew the potion before the Friday wedding.
One day to prepare something that required hours of careful work, precise timing, and constant attention to temperature and measurements.
One day to accomplish what should take two or three at minimum according to the grimoire’s instructions.
Jane pushed herself upright and moved towards the stairs, her exhaustion forgotten in renewed determination.
She needed to review the brewing instructions again, needed to calculate exactly how long each step would take and whether she could compress the timeline without ruining the potion’s efficacy.
Needed to plan how she would trick Anne into drinking it.
The clock in the hallway chimed three as she climbed towards her chamber. It was exactly forty-eight hours until the wedding.
Forty-eight hours to save Elizabeth.
It would have to be enough.