Chapter Twenty-Eight
Jane moved further into the room with steps that suggested exhaustion barely held at bay, her face showing the strain of hours spent brewing impossible potions and watching her sister marry the wrong man.
Behind her, Colonel Fitzwilliam remained in the doorway, his expression carrying gravity that made Darcy’s chest tighten with renewed concern.
“Anne has awakened,” Jane said, her voice carrying weariness that went beyond mere physical fatigue.
“In her own body, we are certain of it. But she is very weak, Lizzy. Weaker than when you inhabited her form, I think. The potion’s effects, perhaps, or the shock of finding herself returned to a body she had tried so desperately to escape. ”
Elizabeth’s hand tensed in Darcy’s. He squeezed it gently, offering what comfort he could while his mind raced through implications he was only beginning to comprehend.
“She is raving,” Jane continued, her gaze fixed on Elizabeth rather than Darcy.
“Speaking of poisons and theft, of stolen lives and rightful claims. Lady Catherine thinks it fever, the result of her collapse. She has sent for a physician to examine her, though I suspect no doctor will find anything physically wrong beyond Anne’s usual frailty. ”
Colonel Fitzwilliam shifted in the doorway, drawing Darcy’s attention with the movement. His cousin’s face showed conflict between family loyalty and something else, something that looked uncomfortably like disgust mixed with pity.
“I overheard some of Anne’s ravings,” the Colonel said, his voice carefully neutral. “Enough that I questioned Miss Bennet about what had truly occurred. She showed me a book. A grimoire, I believe it is called, that Sir Lewis de Bourgh gave to his daughter.”
“I had to tell him,” Jane said, her words directed at Elizabeth with quiet apology.
“He heard Anne speaking about body swaps and stolen flesh, about potions brewed from rare ingredients. He demanded an explanation, and I could not think of a convincing lie, not when I had already asked him to help me get the bezoar. So I showed him the grimoire and told him everything.”
Darcy’s protective instincts flared, sharp and immediate.
His cousin knowing the truth created complications he had not yet had time to consider.
But Fitzwilliam’s expression showed no scepticism, no dismissive disbelief.
Instead, he looked troubled in ways that suggested he had accepted the impossible with surprising readiness.
“You believe it,” Darcy said, the statement emerging more as question despite his intention for certainty. “You believe that Anne used magic to swap bodies with Elizabeth.”
“I do,” Fitzwilliam replied, moving fully into the room and closing the door behind him with quiet click that somehow emphasised the gravity of their discussion.
“Because I knew Sir Lewis dabbled in such things. Not the full extent of his knowledge, perhaps, but enough that I recognised some of the ingredients listed in his grimoire when Miss Bennet showed it to me.”
He crossed to where Jane sat and held out his hand, his expression asking permission rather than demanding compliance.
Jane reached into her pocket and withdrew a leather-bound journal, placing it in Fitzwilliam’s palm with visible reluctance to part with evidence that had been so crucial to saving Elizabeth.
Fitzwilliam opened the grimoire, his fingers turning pages with care that suggested familiarity with old books and their fragility.
His eyes scanned the cramped handwriting, pausing occasionally at entries that clearly meant something to him.
When he finally looked up, his expression showed resignation mixed with old grief.
“My father used to correspond with Sir Lewis about natural philosophy,” Fitzwilliam explained.
“They shared an interest in alchemy, though my father approached it as a gentleman’s hobby while Sir Lewis seemed to take it more seriously.
I remember seeing some of these same ingredients listed in letters my father received.
At the time, I thought it mere eccentricity, wealthy men collecting exotic curiosities to display in cabinets. ”
He closed the grimoire with deliberate care, his jaw tightening with emotion he was clearly struggling to contain.
“But now, I believe this book contains more than recipes for parlour tricks or medicinal tonics. This is genuine power, dark and dangerous. Anne used it to commit a violation I can barely comprehend. To steal another woman’s body, to trap her in a failing form while living in stolen flesh.
” His gaze moved to Elizabeth, showing sympathy that made Darcy’s chest ache with renewed understanding of what his wife had endured.
“I am sorry, Elizabeth. Sorry that my family produced someone capable of such wickedness.”
“You bear no responsibility for Anne’s choices,” Elizabeth replied, her voice steady despite the emotion Darcy could feel thrumming through her where their bodies touched. “Each person must answer for their own actions, not those of their relations.”
Fitzwilliam’s expression softened with gratitude for her generosity, but his posture remained rigid with determination.
“Nevertheless, I will ensure she can never practice such magic again.” He paused, clearly choosing his next words with care.
“Anne must be watched constantly, never allowed access to the ingredients or knowledge required to attempt this wickedness again. I will speak with Lady Catherine, explain what I can without revealing the full extent of Anne’s crimes.
She must understand that her daughter requires supervision beyond what Mrs. Jenkinson provided. ”
The mention of the companion’s name made Elizabeth’s hand tighten on Darcy’s arm again, and he looked down at her face to find anger there mixed with satisfaction.
“Mrs. Jenkinson was complicit in Anne’s scheme,” Elizabeth said, her voice hardening in ways Darcy had never heard from her before.
“She knew about the body swap. Threatened me when I was trapped in Anne’s form, told me that speaking the truth would only result in my being declared mad.
She kept me drugged and watched me almost constantly, ensuring I could not interfere with Anne’s stolen happiness. ”
Darcy felt fury rise in his chest with force that made his vision narrow, his free hand clenching into a fist against his thigh.
That woman, that supposed companion employed to care for an invalid, had instead enabled her charge’s wickedness and actively worked to keep Elizabeth trapped in her nightmare.
His protective instincts, already heightened by recent events, transformed into something darker and more primal.
Someone had hurt his wife, had deliberately prolonged her suffering, and his every instinct demanded retribution.
“She will answer for what she has done,” Darcy said, his voice emerging low and dangerous.
“She already has, in a sense,” Elizabeth replied, and now satisfaction coloured her tone.
“I told Lady Matlock that Mrs. Jenkinson had been drugging Anne, which was true enough even if the target was not who your aunt believed. Lady Matlock had the bottles examined and found concentrations strong enough to render a healthy adult insensible. She confined Mrs. Jenkinson to her room until after the wedding, with orders that she not be allowed to communicate with anyone.”
Darcy felt grim approval settle over his fury, tempering it into something more controlled.
His aunt had acted decisively to protect who she believed was her niece, and in doing so had neutralised a genuine threat without even knowing the full truth of the situation.
Lady Matlock’s competence in a crisis was well established, but Darcy felt renewed respect for her willingness to act on Anne’s word alone, to believe and protect rather than dismissing concerns as hysteria.
Fitzwilliam’s jaw had tightened further during Elizabeth’s explanation, his expression showing the same protective fury Darcy felt.
“Then Mrs. Jenkinson’s fate is sealed. Lady Catherine must be made to understand that her companion betrayed the trust placed in her, endangered her charge rather than protecting her.
On the evidence of those bottles alone, there should be no difficulty in securing her dismissal. ”
He moved to the window, his posture suggesting he needed distance to process everything he had learned.
Darcy watched his cousin’s profile, seeing conflict written in the tension around his eyes and mouth.
This was family. Anne was Fitzwilliam’s cousin just as she was Darcy’s.
Learning of her capacity for such wickedness could not be easy, even for someone as pragmatic as his cousin.
“I am sorry you had to learn this,” Darcy said quietly, addressing Fitzwilliam though his words applied equally to himself. “About Anne, about Sir Lewis’s dark practices. These are not easy truths to bear.”
“No,” Fitzwilliam agreed, his gaze still fixed on whatever lay beyond the window glass.
“But necessary ones. Better to know the truth and act accordingly than to remain in ignorance while evil continues unchecked.” He turned back to face the room, his expression showing renewed determination beneath the grief.
“We must decide how to proceed. What story to tell, what measures to take to ensure this never happens again.”
Darcy gestured toward the small table positioned near the window.
The four of them moved across together and settled into chairs that suddenly felt too intimate for the gravity of their discussion, their voices dropping to hushed tones that would not carry beyond the room’s walls even though the door remained closed against interruption.