Chapter Twenty-Six #2
Jane climbed into the carriage last, settling onto the seat across from Anne and Mr. Bennet. The vehicle lurched into motion, wheels rattling over London’s cobblestones while Jane watched the streets pass by outside the window and tried to hold in her nausea.
St George’s, Hanover Square, rose before them with its pale stone facade catching the afternoon sun, its columns standing like sentinels. The carriage rolled to a stop, and Jane descended with legs that felt disconnected from her body.
The church’s interior struck her with its soaring height, its ceiling arching overhead in elegant curves.
Light streamed through tall windows, illuminating dust motes that drifted lazy through air heavy with the scent of beeswax and flowers.
White roses adorned the ends of pews, their perfume cloying in Jane’s throat as she moved down the aisle behind Anne and Mr. Bennet.
Guests had already assembled, filling perhaps two dozen pews.
The Matlocks occupied prominent positions at the front, Lady Matlock watching the bride’s approach with warm approval while Lord Matlock’s expression showed more reserve.
Colonel Fitzwilliam caught Jane’s eye and smiled.
She struggled to muster a smile in response, and saw the questions in his expression before she looked away. She could not think of him now.
Jane took her place in the front pew on the bride’s side, her hands folded in her lap with fingers that would not quite stay still.
Her gaze moved across the aisle to where a pretty blonde girl who must be Georgiana Darcy sat wreathed in smiles.
Beyond her, Lady Catherine sat rigid with disapproval, and there, beside her, sat the real Elizabeth trapped in Anne’s failing body.
Their eyes met across the narrow space. Elizabeth looked terrible, Anne’s face showing pallor that went beyond mere illness.
But her gaze held her fierce intelligence and desperate hope mixed with terror as she looked at Jane.
A question passed between them without words. Do you have it? Can we do this?
Jane’s hand moved to her pocket in answer, pressing briefly against the wrapped phials before returning to her lap. Elizabeth’s eyes closed with relief so profound that Jane saw tears gather beneath the pale lashes.
Movement at the front of the church drew Jane’s attention. Darcy had entered through a side door, a smile on his face as he walked to his place before the altar, greeting the waiting clergyman.
He loved Elizabeth. Loved the woman he thought he was marrying, unaware that the bride processing towards him wore a stolen face and carried a black heart beneath the cream silk gown.
Jane wanted to shout the truth, wanted to stand and declare the deception.
But who would believe her? They would think her mad.
Would remove her from the church while the ceremony continued without interruption.
The organ swelled with music. Anne began her walk down the aisle on Mr. Bennet’s arm, moving with Elizabeth’s natural grace made triumphant by Anne’s victory.
She looked beautiful. Looked exactly like a bride should look, radiant with happiness and love.
No one watching would suspect that beneath that lovely exterior lurked a woman who had stolen everything she wore, including the body that carried her forwards.
Jane watched Darcy’s face as Anne approached. Saw confusion flicker there, quickly suppressed. Something about his bride’s manner was not quite right, not quite what he expected. But love overcame uncertainty, his expression softening as Anne reached his side and Mr. Bennet placed her hand in his.
The vicar began speaking, his voice carrying through the church with calm authority.
Jane heard the words without processing them, her attention fixed on the couple before the altar.
Anne smiled up at Darcy with Elizabeth’s face, her expression so perfect an imitation that Jane felt nausea rise in her throat.
“If any person here present knows of any lawful impediment to this marriage,” the vicar intoned, his gaze sweeping the assembled guests, “let them speak now, or forever hold their peace.”
The silence that followed stretched taut as a bowstring. Jane’s throat closed around words that wanted to break free, accusations that pressed against her teeth demanding release. She knows of an impediment. The greatest impediment possible. The bride was not who she claimed to be.
But Jane’s lips remained pressed together, her hands clenched in her lap with nails digging into her palms. Speaking now would accomplish nothing except her own removal from the church and the loss of the one chance they had.
Better to wait, to let the ceremony proceed, to act during the wedding breakfast when she might actually succeed in reversing this terrible wrong.
The moment passed. The vicar continued.
“Fitzwilliam Darcy,” the vicar said, turning to Darcy, “wilt thou have this woman to be thy wedded wife, to live together according to God’s law in the holy estate of matrimony?
Wilt thou love her, comfort her, honour and keep her, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto her, so long as ye both shall live? ”
“I will,” Darcy replied, his voice steady despite the uncertainty that lingered in his eyes.
The vicar turned to Anne. “Elizabeth Bennet, wilt thou have this man to be thy wedded husband, to live together according to God’s law in the holy estate of matrimony?
Wilt thou love him, comfort him, honour and keep him, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others, keep thee only unto him, so long as ye both shall live? ”
“I will,” Anne said, and Jane heard triumph beneath the words. “Oh, I will.”
The vows continued, each word binding them more tightly together in law. Darcy repeated his own vows with conviction, his love for Elizabeth evident in every carefully pronounced word.
“I, Elizabeth Bennet, take thee, Fitzwilliam Darcy, to be my wedded husband,” Anne said, her voice clear and sweet.
“To have and to hold from this day forwards, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God’s holy ordinance, and thereto I give thee my troth. ”
The ring came next, Darcy sliding it onto Anne’s finger with hands that trembled slightly.
Gold gleamed against Elizabeth’s stolen flesh.
Jane watched the metal circle settle into place and felt something in her chest crack.
Even if they managed to reverse the body swap, to give Elizabeth back her own face and form, what then?
She would be married to Mr. Darcy, a man she had never liked.
Better that than dying in a failing body, Jane told herself, looking down so she did not have to witness Anne’s smugly triumphant smile.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” the vicar declared. “Those whom God has joined together, let no man put asunder.”
Done. It was done. The marriage was legal and binding, and as Jane looked across the aisle and met her sister’s eyes, she saw the shared awareness that a point of no return had been passed.
Darcy leaned down to kiss his bride, the gesture gentle and reverent. Anne returned the kiss with enthusiasm that made Darcy pull back slightly, surprise evident in his expression before he masked it with a smile.
The organ swelled again, marking their procession back down the aisle. Jane watched them pass, watched Anne nod graciously to guests who beamed at the happy couple. Watched Darcy’s confusion war with his joy, his instincts telling him something was wrong even as his heart celebrated.
The real Elizabeth remained in her pew, her frail body slumped with despair. Their eyes met again as Jane rose to follow the wedding party from the church, and Jane gave the smallest nod she could manage. Soon. This would be over soon.
Outside, carriages waited to convey the wedding party to Matlock House for the breakfast. Jane climbed into one with her mother and younger sisters, their excited chatter washing over her without penetrating the focus that had settled over her thoughts.
The streets of London rolled past outside the window.
Jane’s exhaustion had transformed into something sharper, adrenaline cutting through the fog to leave her thoughts crystal clear despite her body’s desperate need for rest. She reviewed the plan she had come up with that morning as she helped Anne prepare for the wedding.
It was simple enough. Approach Darcy with wine, suggest he share it with his bride.
The impostor would drink it eagerly, never suspecting that her own magic had been turned against her.
And across the room, Elizabeth would drink from her phial simultaneously, their essences trading back to their rightful bodies.
Simple. But terrifying. And very likely, the only chance they would ever have.
The carriage rolled to a stop before Matlock House. Jane moved with them, one hand pressed against her pocket where salvation or disaster waited in two small glass phials.
Matlock House’s drawing rooms had been transformed for the wedding breakfast, their usual restraint giving way to celebration that manifested in white roses and trailing ivy, in tables laden with delicacies, in French champagne flowing freely among guests.
Darcy and his new bride occupied the room’s centre, surrounded by well-wishers. Anne accepted their attentions with grace that looked almost genuine, her performance now so polished that Jane wondered if anyone else noticed the subtle wrongness.
Darcy remained close to his bride’s side, his hand resting at the small of her back in a gesture that spoke of possession and protection both.
But Jane saw the confusion that kept flickering across his face when Anne laughed too loudly at someone’s jest, or leaned against him with familiarity that Elizabeth would never have displayed in public.