Chapter 15
Fifteen
Elizabeth stared back at Mr Darcy, momentarily too incredulous to speak.
“I—” she began at last, but the words caught in her throat. “I do not understand. How can you believe me?”
Mr Darcy exhaled sharply, raking a hand through his hair. He stood, turning from her, and began to pace the mossy edge of the clearing.
“Because,” he said at last, his voice low and uneven, “your story, improbable as it sounds, confirms what I have not dared to admit aloud. For the past several months, I have been…haunted, I suppose, by the most peculiar dreams.”
He paused, frowning down at the damp grass beneath his boots.
“At first, they came only intermittently—strange impressions that faded by morning. But since arriving at Rosings, they have become more frequent and far more distinct. So much so that I have begun to question whether they are dreams at all. They feel more like…memories.”
Elizabeth sat frozen, her pulse fluttering wildly.
Mr Darcy glanced back at her, then looked away again. “They are disjointed but irrefutable. And they all share one constant.” He stopped pacing. “You.”
She caught her breath as he continued haltingly, “I see you in these dreams as if we are already well acquainted. As if—” He hesitated. “As if we have lived a life together, in some other time.”
Elizabeth said nothing, scarcely daring to blink for fear the moment might vanish.
Mr Darcy turned to her fully now, his expression drawn with raw vulnerability.
“In these dreams, I remember everything in the smallest detail—the pattern embroidered on your gown, the sound of your laughter across a crowded room, the way you look at me when you are trying not to smile. I remember places we have visited. Gifts I have given you…” His words faded, his gaze drifting into the near distance.
“What sorts of gifts?” she asked, her own voice barely above a whisper.
He turned to her with a faint, self-conscious smile. “Books, mostly. But other, more personal, items as well.”
Stepping closer, his gaze held hers. “There was a pendant—a locket. Gold, with an engraving on the front. Flowers, perhaps? I cannot recall exactly, but I remember the warmth of your skin as I clasped it about your neck. It felt…important.”
Elizabeth drew a sharp breath, her hand flying to her throat, where the necklace had once rested.
“There was such a locket,” she said softly. “I found it at a market in Bromley. I was wearing it the day of the accident, but then it vanished. I asked after it when I woke. Do you not remember?”
Mr Darcy frowned. “Yes…I think so. Or perhaps I am muddling everything together.” His gaze dropped before he continued, “And then there was the ribbon. At the picnic, when I picked it up, I felt something. A jolt, of sorts. And then I saw flashes, of us dancing together. You wore a gown of pale yellow, and the ribbon was in your hair. There were blossoms, too…purple alyssum, I think. I remember the scent.”
Elizabeth’s lips parted in astonishment. What he described was not fancy. It was memory.
Or was it?
She pressed her fingers to her mouth, trembling with the effort of comprehension.
Because she, too, remembered.
Not vaguely, not as some fleeting impression, but with stark precision.
The sweep of the music. The warmth of his gloved hands. The intensity of his gaze as she turned beneath the chandeliers.
Slowly, her eyes rose to his, her throat tight. “It was lavender. The flowers I wore in my hair. I remember it also. Or I think I do. Only…”
Her voice drifted to a halt. She bit her lip and turned away, a tear escaping before she could brush it aside. Mr Darcy was beside her in an instant, lowering himself onto the bench and taking her hand in his. “What is it?” he asked, his voice low.
Elizabeth’s fingers tightened around his.
“It is the memories,” she whispered. “Or rather, the loss of them. At first, I could recall everything about my life before the accident. Our time together in Hertfordshire, your proposal… But now, those images are beginning to slip away. Like a painting fading before my eyes—details vanishing, colours bleeding at the edges.”
Mr Darcy sat in stunned silence, his thumb brushing lightly across the back of her hand.
Elizabeth drew a ragged breath. “And they are being replaced, by recollections I know are not mine. Memories of this altered life. I can remember things I never did. Conversations I never had. Feelings that do not belong to me. It is as though my life is being rewritten.”
A sudden thought struck her, and she gasped, turning to him with wide eyes. “Mrs Annesley—”
Mr Darcy straightened. “What of her?”
“She knew,” Elizabeth said, her speech unsteady. “Somehow, she knew. She spoke in riddles, as though warning me. She told me that one path would endure and the other would fade. And that once a memory settled, it could not easily be undone.”
Mr Darcy’s expression grew taut with astonishment.
“She told me,” Elizabeth went on, her voice breaking, “that the power of choice was still mine, but that I must choose wisely. I did not know what to make of it at the time, but now…now I believe she was trying to guide me back.”
Her gaze fell to her lap, her words barely audible when she continued, “That is why I had to see her again. I thought she might know what I must do. But now she is gone, and with her, any hope I had.”
Mr Darcy was silent for a moment, but his grip on her hand tightened, steady and sure. “No. If there is a way back, we shall find it. Together.”
At his words, Elizabeth’s composure shattered. Wrenching her hand free, she rose abruptly, turning from him in agitation. “Can you not see? It is too late! You are to marry Miss de Bourgh in a matter of hours! There is no time to make sense of any of this. No time to act, even if we knew how.”
Mr Darcy rose also, his expression grave. “You are mistaken.”
She faced him again, her breath quickening. “I know you mean well, but please, do not comfort me with empty assurances. The wedding is nearly upon us. The church is prepared, and your aunt will never—”
“I am not going to marry Anne.”
Elizabeth stilled. “You are not?”
He shook his head, stepping closer. “I was on my way to the parsonage to tell you as much when I met you in the lane. I realized that I could not go through with it. That I could not, in good conscience, bind myself to one woman when I am in love with another.”
A light gasp escaped her lips. “You are in love with me?”
“I am,” he said simply, stepping close enough for her to feel the heat of his body in the cool morning air. His hands rose to her face, his touch reverent, his gaze searching hers with fierce tenderness. “I think I always have been.”
Joy surged through her, unlike any she had ever known. Without a word, Elizabeth reached for him, her arms sliding about his neck as he drew her into his embrace. Her chin tipped up, and his lips found hers.
The kiss was everything: a release, a promise, a reckoning. The world itself seemed to still, holding its breath for them alone. There was no past, no future, only this moment, this truth.
“Elizabeth,” he breathed. Just her name, spoken like a vow.
But in the very next instant, the sky darkened as if a great curtain had fallen. Wind surged through the trees, and a crack of thunder shattered the stillness.
They broke apart, looking upwards as the first drops of rain fell.
Mr Darcy seized her hand. “Come,” he urged, his voice barely audible above the rising gale. “We must find shelter before the storm worsens.”
Together they hurried from the garden, the wind pulling Elizabeth’s hair from its pins and whipping it across her face as the trees groaned overhead. Thunder rolled nearer, and the heavens opened in a sudden, punishing downpour.
Then there was a flash, a deafening crack, and a splintering sound like the world itself had split in two.
Elizabeth felt the ground beneath her shift, light searing behind her eyes.
And then nothing at all.