Chapter Thirty-Three
In a beautifully appointed sitting room at Pemberley, a room which had once been the domain of Lady Anne Darcy, Elizabeth sat at her writing desk, the grimoire resting before her.
She ran her fingers across the cover one final time, tracing the de Bourgh crest embossed in the lower corner, before lifting it and placing it carefully in the drawer she had designated for things that required safe-keeping.
The key turned with satisfying click, metal sliding into place with finality that made something in Elizabeth’s chest ease.
She had debated what to do with the grimoire for weeks after returning to herself, after the second wedding at Longbourn and the journey to Pemberley.
Destroying it had seemed wrong somehow, despite the dark uses to which Anne had put its recipes.
The knowledge itself was not evil, merely dangerous in the wrong hands.
And there might come a time when understanding such things once again proved necessary, when knowing how a spell was constructed could help undo damage wrought by someone else with similar knowledge.
But she would not use it unless in case of great need. Would not be tempted by shortcuts or magical solutions to ordinary problems. The grimoire would remain locked away, a reminder of choices made and consequences faced, but not a tool she would ever willingly employ.
Elizabeth withdrew the key and tucked it into the small box she kept in the drawer above, beneath correspondence and calling cards and other ephemera of her new station.
Settling back in her chair, she let her gaze drift across the sitting room that had become her private retreat in this grand house.
The room was smaller than most at Pemberley, which she appreciated.
Darcy had given her free choice of any chamber for her personal use, and she had selected this one for its eastern exposure and its view of the rose garden below.
He had been obviously pleased by her choice, telling her it had once been his mother’s favourite room.
The furnishings were elegant without being ostentatious, comfortable chairs upholstered in blue damask positioned near the windows to catch the best light for reading.
Her books lined shelves along one wall, a growing collection that included volumes from her father’s library at Longbourn alongside new acquisitions from Pemberley’s extensive collection and purchases made during their wedding trip.
A knock at the door interrupted her contemplation. At her call to enter, one of the housemaids appeared with the morning post arranged on a silver tray.
“The post, ma’am,” the maid said, setting the tray on the desk at Elizabeth’s elbow. “Mrs. Reynolds said to tell you that the guest rooms are ready for your inspection whenever you find it convenient.”
“Thank you, Mary,” Elizabeth replied. “Please tell Mrs. Reynolds I shall come down within the hour.”
The maid departed, and Elizabeth turned her attention to the correspondence.
Several letters lay arranged by what she assumed was the butler’s assessment of their importance.
On top rested a thick missive bearing her father’s distinctive scrawl, which made her smile with anticipation of his sardonic observations about neighbourhood gossip.
Likely, its thickness was due to letters enclosed from her mother and some of her younger sisters as well.
Beneath the packet from Longbourn lay letters from her aunt Gardiner and from Charlotte Collins.
But it was the letter at the bottom of the stack that caught and held Elizabeth’s attention. The Bath postmark and the quality of the paper suggested its source before she broke the seal.
Elizabeth unfolded the letter with fingers that trembled slightly despite her best efforts at composure.
She had written to Lady Catherine twice since leaving London, formal notes expressing hope for Anne’s recovery and offering what comfort she could despite knowing her words would likely be received with suspicion or outright hostility.
Lady Catherine had not responded to either letter, and Elizabeth had assumed her overtures would continue to be ignored.
Elizabeth’s eyebrows rose as she read, realising that Lady Catherine now knew what Anne had done. Anne must have confessed all to her mother at some point.
Mrs. Darcy,
I write to inform you of my daughter’s condition, as you have expressed interest in such matters through your previous correspondence.
Anne’s health continues its decline. The Bath waters have provided no relief, and the physicians can offer nothing beyond palliatives that ease her discomfort without addressing the underlying deterioration of her constitution.
Her mind remains sound, though her spirits vary greatly from day to day.
Some mornings she wakes with something approaching contrition, speaking of regrets and acknowledging the wickedness of her actions.
On such days she asks after you, wonders whether you have recovered fully from your ordeal.
She seems genuinely distressed by what she attempted, by the harm she caused in pursuit of desires she now recognises as shameful.
But other days bring only resentment and bitterness.
On those occasions she rails against fate, against the frailty that plagues her, against all of us who have failed to understand her suffering.
She insists she would do it all again if given the opportunity, that you were unworthy of the blessings you possessed and that she had every right to claim them for herself.
I confess I do not know which version of my daughter represents her true feelings. Perhaps both do, warring within her as her body fails around them.
She demands my assistance in creating another potion, finding another body to inhabit before this one fails her entirely.
I will not be a party to such wickedness.
Interfering in the natural order of things is abhorrent, and had I known what Anne intended, she would never have had the opportunity to harm you.
You have my word that I will not allow her to harm anyone else.
The physicians believe she has only weeks remaining now, at best. I thought you should know. I will, of course, remain with my daughter until the end.
Lady Catherine de Bourgh
Elizabeth set down the letter with hands that had gone cold despite the summer warmth filling her sitting room.
Weeks to live. Anne de Bourgh, who had stolen her body and spoken vows in her voice and trapped her in a dying prison of flesh, would soon face the final consequence of her choices.
The knowledge sat heavy in Elizabeth’s chest, complicated emotion that defied easy categorisation.
She should feel satisfaction, perhaps. Justice being served, the villain facing appropriate punishment for her crimes.
But Elizabeth found she could not summon such simple vindication.
Instead she felt only a profound sadness for the waste of it all.
Anne had possessed intelligence and determination, qualities that might have been directed toward genuine accomplishment had circumstances been different.
Elizabeth drew a fresh sheet of paper toward her, dipping her pen in the inkwell and pausing to think. The words she needed would not come easily, required thought and precision to convey sympathy without condescension, concern without claiming false friendship.
Lady Catherine,
Thank you for informing me of Anne’s condition. I am genuinely sorry to learn of her continued decline, and I hope the physicians can at least ensure her remaining time is free from unnecessary suffering.
Please convey my regards to Anne on her better days, when she is capable of receiving them.
Tell her that I bear her no lasting ill will, that I understand desperation can drive people to actions they would never otherwise contemplate.
Tell her that I hope she finds peace, whatever form that peace might take.
If there is anything I might do to ease her final days, you need only ask. I would be willing to write to her directly if such correspondence would bring her any comfort.
I know our families’ relationship has been complicated by recent events, but I hope you will accept my sincere wishes for Anne’s comfort and your own strength during this difficult time.
With genuine concern,
Elizabeth Darcy
She read over the letter twice, weighing each phrase against her true feelings.
The words were honest, she decided. She did hope Anne found peace, did wish for her comfort in dying as she had not experienced comfort in living.
And she bore no desire for vengeance or further suffering beyond what Anne’s own choices had already wrought.
Elizabeth folded the letter, sealing it with wax and pressing her new seal into the soft surface. She set the letter aside for the afternoon post, then rose from her desk and moved to the window.
Below, the rose garden spread toward the south lawn, blooms ranging from white to pink to deep red.
The scent drifted up through her open window, sweet and slightly heady in the warm air.
This was her home now, this beautiful estate with its elegant rooms and extensive grounds.
She was mistress here, responsible for its management and the welfare of everyone who lived within its bounds.
The thought still struck her with wonder sometimes, that this was truly her life now.
That the impossible circumstances which had brought her here had resolved into genuine happiness, into a marriage that grew more comfortable and affectionate with each passing day.
Darcy had been patient beyond measure, had given her the time and space she needed to feel that their marriage belonged to her rather than to the woman who had stolen her form.