Chapter Twenty-Four
Jane had positioned herself by the parlour window three times that morning, each time forcing herself away with the reminder that watched pots never boiled and colonels never arrived more quickly for being stared after.
But the fourth time she found herself drawn to the glass, Colonel Fitzwilliam’s familiar figure appeared walking along Gracechurch Street, and her heart performed an uncomfortable leap that had nothing to do with the bezoar she hoped he carried.
She moved away from the window with deliberate calm, settling in the chair farthest from where she had been standing, her hands folded in her lap with what she hoped appeared like casual patience.
The clock showed half past three. Anne was out with Mr. Darcy, taking a drive in Hyde Park that Mrs. Bennet had insisted upon.
Jane had watched them depart an hour ago, had seen the impostor smile at Darcy with Elizabeth’s face while wearing Elizabeth’s favourite blue pelisse, and had wanted to scream at the wrongness of it all.
The maid announced Colonel Fitzwilliam, and Jane rose with hands that trembled slightly. He entered carrying a small object wrapped in a handkerchief, his expression mixing triumph with something softer that made Jane’s breath catch.
“Miss Bennet,” he said, executing a bow that managed to be both formal and familiar. “I come bearing gifts, as promised.”
He crossed to where she stood and held out the wrapped object with ceremony that suggested he somehow understood its importance.
Jane took it with fingers that shook properly now, no pretence possible.
She unwrapped the handkerchief with careful movements, aware of the Colonel watching her face rather than her hands.
The bezoar shaving lay against white linen, a thin curved shard no larger than her thumbnail. Its surface caught the afternoon light with an iridescent sheen that shifted from brownish-green to deep purple as she tilted it, the concentric layers visible even in this small fragment.
“Oh,” Jane whispered, her voice breaking. “Oh, Colonel Fitzwilliam, I cannot thank you enough.”
“It was indeed in my father’s cabinet of curiosities, as I had thought,” the Colonel explained, moving to stand beside her.
His shoulder nearly touched hers, close enough that she could feel warmth radiating from him.
“The stone itself is quite ancient, supposedly taken from a Persian goat some hundred years ago. My grandfather acquired it during his diplomatic service in the East, though I suspect the merchant who sold it to him may have exaggerated its provenance somewhat.”
Jane looked up from the bezoar to find him watching her with that same searching intensity from yesterday. “Your father will not mind its loss?”
“He has the whole stone still,” the Colonel assured her. “I merely took a thin shaving from the outermost layer. He will never notice its absence, and even if he does, I shall simply tell him I needed it for medicinal purposes. Which is not entirely untrue, I think, given your urgent need for it.”
The statement hung between them with weight that made Jane’s chest tighten. He knew something was wrong. His willingness to help without demanding explanations demonstrated either remarkable trust or remarkable perception, and Jane suspected it was both.
“When a lady asks for an antidote,” she quoted back to him with small smile, “you do not enquire after the poison.”
“Precisely,” Colonel Fitzwilliam agreed, his expression warming further. “Though I confess myself curious about what poison requires such an exotic remedy. Not curious enough to pry, mind you. But curious nonetheless.”
Jane wrapped the bezoar shaving carefully back in his handkerchief, her fingers lingering on the fine linen that still carried a faint scent of his cologne.
She should return it, should fetch one of her own handkerchiefs.
But some part of her wanted to keep this small piece of him, this tangible reminder of his kindness and trust.
“I hope someday soon, I might explain,” Jane said, surprising herself with the admission. “When circumstances permit such confidence. But for now, I can only thank you and beg your continued discretion.”
“You have both,” the Colonel replied, his voice dropping lower. “Miss Bennet, I hope you know that if you are in any sort of trouble, any difficulty whatsoever, you need only ask for my assistance. I would count it an honour to be of service to you.”
The earnestness in his tone made Jane’s throat tighten. She looked up at him, at his kind face and honest eyes, and felt something shift in her chest that had nothing to do with Elizabeth’s desperate situation and everything to do with the man standing before her.
“May I ask you something?” the Colonel continued, his gaze searching hers with intensity that made her pulse quicken. “Not about the bezoar or your mysterious purpose. Something else entirely.”
“Of course,” Jane managed, though her voice emerged breathless.
“Yesterday, I asked whether you remained heartbroken over Mr. Bingley’s departure,” the Colonel said, his words coming more slowly now as though he was choosing each one with deliberate care.
“Your answer suggested your feelings had changed, that your thoughts were occupied with other concerns. I wonder if I might ask a more direct question, one that I confess touches on matters of personal interest rather than mere curiosity.”
Jane’s heart hammered against her ribs. “What question?”
“Do you still hold any tender feelings for Mr. Bingley?” the Colonel asked, his gaze never leaving hers. “Or has your heart moved past that disappointment entirely?”
The directness of the question should have shocked her, should have made her step back and remind him that such personal enquiries bordered on impropriety. But Jane found she did not want to step back. Found instead that she wanted to answer with equal honesty.
“I do not think I ever held truly tender feelings for Mr. Bingley,” Jane said, the admission emerging with surprising ease.
“I liked him. Found him pleasant and kind. But when he left, when my expectations were disappointed, I grieved more for the idea of him than for the man himself. And now...” She paused, gathering courage.
“Now I find that all my thoughts are occupied with my sister’s welfare.
There is no room left for regret over Mr. Bingley, if there ever truly was such regret to begin with. ”
Colonel Fitzwilliam’s expression transformed, his smile brightening with such obvious pleasure that Jane felt answering warmth spread through her chest. “I am very glad to hear that, Miss Bennet. Very glad indeed.”
Their eyes held for a moment that stretched longer than propriety strictly allowed, and Jane became acutely aware of how close he stood, how his gaze dropped briefly to her mouth before returning to her eyes.
The air between them felt charged with possibility, with potential for something that Jane desperately wanted to explore but could not afford to consider while Elizabeth’s fate hung in such precarious balance.
She stepped back, breaking the moment with reluctance that must have shown on her face. “Forgive me, Colonel. I should not have spoken so freely. It was not appropriate.”
“On the contrary,” the Colonel replied, making no move to close the distance she had created.
“I found your honesty refreshing. And I hope...” He paused, seeming to reconsider whatever he had been about to say.
“I hope that once your current difficulties are resolved, whatever they may be, and your concerns for your sister’s happiness are resolved, we might have opportunity to continue this conversation in circumstances that permit more leisurely exploration of the topic. ”
Jane felt her cheeks heat at the implication in his words, at the clear statement of interest that lay beneath his careful courtesy.
Part of her wanted to tell him everything, to unburden herself of this terrible secret and let him help carry the weight of it.
He was perceptive enough to believe her, she thought. Kind enough to want to help.
But what if he did not believe her? Even if he only prevented her from giving “Elizabeth” the potion to drink, fearing it might injure her, it would ruin everything.
And there was another consideration. If she told him the truth now, if she involved him in this desperate scheme to reverse dark magic through forbidden potions, she would be drawing him into something dangerous and potentially scandalous.
She would be risking not just her own reputation but his as well, tainting any possibility of future connexion between them with the stain of association with witchcraft and deception.
Better to handle this herself. Better to save Elizabeth first and then, perhaps, when all was resolved and safe, she might tell him the truth. Might explain what his kindness had meant, how his willingness to help without demanding explanations had given her hope when she most needed it.
“I look forward to that conversation,” Jane said, meaning it with fierce sincerity. “And I thank you again, more than I can express, for your help in obtaining this.” She held up the wrapped bezoar shaving. “You have done more for me than you can possibly know.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam executed another bow, this one carrying warmth that went beyond mere courtesy. “It was my pleasure, Miss Bennet. Truly.”
“Wait.” Something else occurred to her. “Would you do me one other, very small favour? Nothing so strange as this, I promise you.”
He smiled. “Were it ten times so strange, I would not refuse, Miss Bennet. What is it you need of me?”
“Miss Anne de Bourgh is resident in your uncle’s house, is she not, with her mother?” Jane knew well that she was. Elizabeth had managed to bribe one of the maids at Matlock House to send Jane a note, folded around a cut lock of Anne’s short, thin hair.
“Indeed, she is.”
“If I write a note to her, would you pass it to her privately? I do not want anyone else to know that she has it. Today.”
“An easy matter, I am expected there for dinner. Of course, and not a soul shall suspect that I gave it to her, you have my word.”
She swallowed a lump in her throat, went to her aunt’s writing table and penned a swift note, folding it over and sealing it with a hastily melted blob of wax. She did not write anything on the outside, unable to bring herself to write Anne’s name on this critical message for Lizzy.
Their fingers brushed as she handed the note to the Colonel, and Jane’s breath caught. For a moment time seemed suspended as they looked at each other.
And then Lydia called something to Kitty loudly in the room just above their heads, and the spell was broken.
The Colonel withdrew his hand, tucking the note inside his jacket.
“It will be in Anne’s hands this evening, I promise you,” he said.
He moved towards the door, then paused at the threshold to look back at her.
“I hope whatever difficulty you face resolves favourably. And I hope that when it does, you will allow me to call on you again. Not as my cousin’s connexion, but as.
..” He trailed off, leaving the sentence unfinished but its meaning clear.
“I would like that very much,” Jane replied, her voice barely above a whisper.
He smiled one final time and departed, leaving Jane alone in the parlour with the precious bezoar shaving clutched in her hand and her heart performing complicated acrobatics that had nothing to do with Elizabeth’s desperate situation and everything to do with the man who had just left.
She stood there for several minutes after his departure, staring at the closed door while her mind spun with thoughts that had no place in her current crisis.
The Colonel’s interest was obvious, his intentions clear despite the careful courtesy with which he had expressed them.
And her own feelings, which she had not allowed herself to examine closely during these desperate days, suddenly demanded acknowledgement.
She liked him. More than liked him. Found herself drawn to his kindness and perceptiveness, to the easy way he had offered help without demanding explanations, to the warmth in his eyes when he looked at her.
Found herself imagining what might develop between them once this nightmare was over, once Elizabeth was safe and Jane could afford to think about her own future rather than solely her sister’s salvation.
But those were thoughts for later. Jane shook herself, forcing her mind back to the immediate crisis. She had the bezoar now. Had all the ingredients required for the reversal potion. Which meant she could begin brewing right now.
She moved towards the stairs, her exhaustion forgotten in renewed determination.
The grimoire awaited, its instructions requiring careful study one final time.
She needed to review the brewing process, needed to ensure she understood every step before beginning.
Needed to calculate exact timing so the potion would be ready to administer at precisely the right moment.
Hopefully, her mother, aunt and sisters would continue to keep Anne busy.
Anne herself was doing her part by avoiding Jane, perhaps aware that Jane was the most likely person to expose her.
All to the good. Jane could barely stand to be in the same room as the impostor wearing her dearest Lizzy’s face.
The clock in the hallway chimed three as she climbed towards her room. Twenty-four hours until the wedding.
Twenty-four hours to save her sister and prevent a marriage built on stolen identity and dark magic.
Jane clutched the wrapped bezoar shaving to her chest and felt grim determination settle over her like armour. She had what she needed now. Had the final ingredient that would make the reversal possible. The rest was simply a matter of careful execution and perhaps a small amount of luck.
She could do this. She would do this.
Elizabeth’s life depended on it.