Chapter Twenty-Five
The soup course arrived with the usual ceremony, footmen moving silently around the Matlock dining table while conversation flowed with the ease of people accustomed to formal dinners.
Elizabeth lifted her spoon with a hand that trembled slightly, grateful that the motion could be attributed to Anne’s general weakness rather than the anxiety that coiled tighter in her chest with each passing hour.
Lady Catherine held forth about the arrangements for tomorrow’s wedding, her disapproval evident in every clipped syllable despite her agreement to attend.
Lady Matlock responded with patient courtesy, redirecting the conversation whenever her sister veered too close to open insult about the bride.
Lord Matlock contributed occasional comments between bites, clearly hoping to finish his meal without family discord erupting.
Elizabeth forced herself to swallow a spoonful of broth that tasted like nothing, her throat tight with nerves.
Tomorrow. The wedding would be tomorrow afternoon at three o’clock.
And she still had no plan for how to force Anne to drink the reversal potion, assuming Jane even managed to brew it in time.
She had heard nothing back from Jane since sending the note with the lock of hair, and the not knowing was weighing on her. She set down her spoon.
“Anne, dear, you are not eating,” Lady Matlock observed. “Are you feeling quite well?”
“I am well enough, Aunt,” Elizabeth managed, forcing Anne’s soft voice to remain steady. “Simply not very hungry this evening.”
Colonel Fitzwilliam caught her eye across the table, and something in his expression made Elizabeth blink at him curiously.
He looked oddly conspiratorial. He shifted in his chair, reaching for the salt cellar that sat nearer to Elizabeth’s place setting.
As he leaned forwards, his hand brushed against the edge of her plate, and a small folded paper appeared beneath its rim with such practised sleight of hand that Elizabeth might have missed it had she not been watching him so intently.
“Forgive me,” the Colonel said smoothly, settling back with the salt. “Clumsy of me.”
Elizabeth’s fingers closed around the note, her heart hammering against Anne’s weak ribs.
She waited until Lady Catherine launched into another complaint about the wedding’s timing before unfolding the paper in her lap beneath the table’s edge, angling it to catch enough light to read Jane’s neat handwriting.
I have the bezoar. Brewing now. Will not be ready until tomorrow afternoon. I am so sorry. I will find a way. Trust me. J.
The words struck Elizabeth with the force of a physical blow. Tomorrow afternoon. After the wedding? Elizabeth’s vision blurred at the edges, black spots dancing across her sight as panic crashed over her in waves.
How could they possibly make this work? Anne would never willingly drink anything Jane offered, not when she had gone to such elaborate lengths to steal Elizabeth’s body and life.
How could they force the potion down Anne’s throat when she would be with Darcy, celebrating her wedding breakfast, surrounded by guests and family who would think Jane had lost her mind if she tried to assault the new Mrs. Darcy with mysterious potions?
It was impossible. Completely, utterly impossible.
Elizabeth’s hands began to shake properly now, the trembling spreading up Anne’s arms until her whole body vibrated with barely contained terror.
She managed to shove the paper up her sleeve, but as her hand landed on the table again, the soup spoon clattered against the bowl, broth sloshing over the rim to stain the white tablecloth.
She tried to steady herself, tried to force Anne’s weak muscles to obey, but panic had seized control of her limbs and would not release them.
“Anne?” Lady Matlock’s voice seemed to come from very far away. “Anne, what is wrong?”
The dining room tilted sideways, the candles smearing into long streaks of light. Elizabeth tried to stand, some instinct demanding she flee even though there was nowhere to go. Her legs refused to support her weight. She felt herself falling, the floor rushing up to meet her.
Strong hands caught her before she struck the ground.
Colonel Fitzwilliam had moved around the table with remarkable speed, his arms supporting Anne’s frail body while voices erupted around them in overlapping concern and alarm.
Elizabeth tried to speak, tried to explain, but her borrowed lungs would not draw enough air for words.
The black spots in her vision spread and merged.
“Get her to the sofa,” Lady Matlock commanded, her voice cutting through the chaos. “Quickly, before she faints entirely.”
Elizabeth felt herself being lifted, carried across the room and into the adjoining smoking room where the gentlemen usually adjourned after dinner.
The Colonel lowered her onto something soft, cushions supporting her back while her head spun with vertigo.
Someone loosened the high collar of Anne’s dinner dress, blessed air finally reaching her constricted neck.
“Anne, can you hear me?” Lady Matlock’s face appeared above her, features tight with worry. “Anne, dear, speak to me.”
“I am sorry,” Elizabeth whispered. “I do not know what came over me.”
“This is precisely what I warned would happen,” Lady Catherine’s voice cut across the room with sharp accusation. “London is too much for her delicate constitution. The air, the noise, the constant stimulation. We should never have come. I am taking her back to Rosings immediately.”
No! The word screamed through Elizabeth’s mind with such force that she nearly spoke it aloud. She could not go back to Rosings now, not when the wedding was tomorrow and Jane had the potion almost ready. If Lady Catherine dragged her back to Kent, any chance of reversal would be lost completely.
“Please,” Elizabeth managed, forcing more strength into Anne’s weak voice. “Please, Mama. I want to stay for the wedding. I want to see Darcy married. It is important to me.”
Lady Catherine’s face appeared in her blurred vision, expression cycling between displeasure and reluctant compassion. “You are clearly unwell. Your health must take precedence over social obligations.”
“I will rest tonight and be perfectly well tomorrow,” Elizabeth insisted, putting every scrap of Anne’s supposed attachment to Darcy into her tone. “I want to see my cousin married. Please do not deny me this one thing.”
The appeal struck its target. Lady Catherine’s expression softened fractionally, her hand reaching out to touch Anne’s cheek with unexpected gentleness.
“Very well. But if you show any sign of distress tomorrow, we leave immediately after the ceremony. I will not risk your health for the sake of appearances.”
“Thank you, Mama,” Elizabeth whispered, relief flooding through her.
Lady Matlock had been conferring quietly with her husband near the door. She returned now, settling into a chair beside the sofa with determined expression. “Anne will stay in tonight and rest completely. No more excitement, no visitors. Just quiet and calm to restore her strength for tomorrow.”
“I should cancel my engagement,” Lady Catherine said, though reluctance coloured her tone. “Mrs. Drummond will understand if I send word that Anne requires my attendance.”
“Nonsense,” Lady Matlock replied with gentle firmness.
“I will stay with Anne myself. You go to your friend’s soirée; you have so few opportunities to socialise with your London friends, do not miss this one.
There is no need for both of us to hover over the poor girl.
I promise you, I will take excellent care of her. ”
Lady Catherine hesitated, clearly torn between social obligation and maternal concern. Finally, she nodded with visible reluctance. “Very well. But send for me immediately if her condition worsens. I can be back within the half hour.”
“Of course,” Lady Matlock agreed, already gesturing to the footman hovering near the door. “Have Miss de Bourgh’s chamber prepared immediately. Extra pillows, fresh water, and a good fire. She is to have complete quiet and rest.”
Elizabeth allowed herself to be helped upstairs, Lady Matlock supporting her weight while Mrs. Jenkinson appeared from somewhere to flutter anxiously on the other side. They settled her into the bed, pillows propped behind Anne’s back and blankets tucked around her legs.
Lady Catherine appeared in the doorway. She crossed to the bed and placed a cool hand against Elizabeth’s forehead, her expression softening.
“Rest, my dear,” Lady Catherine said, her voice carrying genuine tenderness beneath its usual commanding tone. “All will be well. You will see Darcy married tomorrow, and then we shall return to Kent where the air is better for your health.”
She departed with rustling silk and fading perfume, leaving Elizabeth alone with Lady Matlock and Mrs. Jenkinson. Elizabeth closed her eyes and felt despair settle over her like a suffocating blanket.
Tomorrow. The wedding was tomorrow, and she still had no idea how to save herself.
Mrs. Jenkinson moved about the chamber, adjusting pillows that needed no adjustment and checking the fire that burned perfectly well on its own.
Elizabeth watched through half-closed eyes, aware that the companion’s fussing had nothing to do with genuine concern and everything to do with surveillance.
Mrs. Jenkinson was watching her, had been watching her all evening with that sharp, assessing gaze that suggested she suspected something.