Chapter 5 #2
Reaching the edge of the path that opened into the small grove near the water, she paused for breath, eyes scanning the area for someone in the water.
Instead, all she saw was Darcy, kneeling on the bank. His shoulders were tense, his coat dusted with snow.
What? Is he the one who shouted, or is he assisting someone?
Before her mind could catch up with the sight in front of her, she heard him speak—low, ragged, his voice scraping against the silence.
“I wish I had never been born!”
She gasped—too loudly, but Darcy did not hear.
Because the air had changed.
A sharp gust swept through the clearing, and snow danced upwards instead of down. The trees did not move, yet the wind curled unnaturally around them.
And then—without a sound—a man appeared across the stream.
Not a man. Not quite.
Elizabeth’s heart stuttered. She stumbled back a pace and ducked behind a tree trunk before peeking around at the strange vision.
The figure shimmered faintly, as though the light could not decide how to strike him. His hair was pale, his eyes unnaturally green. His coat was fine, cut in a fashion she had never seen. He stepped out onto the stream, but instead of crashing through the thin ice, he merely walked on top of it.
What sort of magic is this?
She saw Darcy take a step back, and she clutched the tree trunk to keep herself steady.
The stranger smiled. “That,” he said, “can be arranged.”
She stared, shocked into speechlessness, as the two men spoke, holding one of the most bizarre conversations she had ever encountered. The odd man finished by telling Darcy that he had been removed from the equation.
Before she could process what that statement even meant, the stranger smiled and shifted his gaze—looking directly at her and winked.
Elizabeth gasped, and Darcy turned. Their eyes met, and his face made his bewilderment clear. “Miss Bennet?”
He said her name like a question, like he doubted the reality of her presence. Over his shoulder, the fae—for what else could he be?—gave her a small smile.
And then he was gone.
Completely.
There was no sound, no shimmer, no burst of light—only the hush of snow and the low creak of the trees.
The stream was still. The broken ice had frozen over again, smooth as glass. The footprints that had marked the bank were filled in.
Darcy stepped forward, staring at the place where the figure had been.
“I—he was just—” He turned back toward Elizabeth, his voice strangely hollow. “Did you see him?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, then closed it again.
She looked at the spot where the fae had stood. Then back at Darcy.
She nodded.
“…Yes,” she said softly. “I saw him.”
“Miss Bennet?” Darcy’s voice was uncertain. “Can you… see me?”
A short bark of nervous laughter burst from her lips. “Yes, Mr. Darcy, I can.”
“Ah, well… it is just that he said he had removed me…” His voice trailed off.
They stood in silence. Somewhere far off, a bird called once, then fell silent. At length, the cold pressed in, through her layers, and she shivered slightly.
Drawing her cloak more tightly around her, she cleared her throat. “Mr. Darcy,” she said, her voice uneven, “what just happened?”
Darcy looked utterly undone. His eyes searched the grove as if he could will the stranger back into being.
But the grove gave no answers.
She watched in silence as he swallowed hard.
“I… do not know, Miss Bennet.”
∞∞∞
Darcy stared at the frozen stream, then at Elizabeth, then back again.
None of it made sense.
His heart pounded hard in his chest, the cold air burning his lungs. The strange man—apparition—was gone. The woods were quiet again. Snow drifted lazily through the boughs above.
Did that really just happen? Or am I hallucinating?
The shock on Elizabeth’s face told him that if he did, indeed, imagine it all, then Elizabeth was similarly afflicted. He turned toward her, trying to speak, but no words came.
She looked as shaken as he felt.
“I—” he began, then stopped.
Elizabeth blinked, rubbed her gloved hands together for warmth, and gave a shaky laugh. “I do not suppose… do you often find woodland spirits in Kent?”
Darcy let out a breath, startled into the ghost of a smile. “Not in my experience.”
They stood a moment longer, uncertain.
At last, Elizabeth broke the silence again. “Do you think this is all a dream?”
Darcy hesitated. “If it is, it is a very cold one.”
That drew a small, breathless laugh from her, and something in his chest eased slightly. He nodded toward the path.
“Come,” he said. “Let us walk back. Christmas Day has yet to begin, and I would rather face it with dry boots.”
She nodded, still pale, and fell into step beside him.
They walked in silence for some minutes. The snow muffled their footfalls, and the air smelled of pine and smoke. Darcy felt his mind begin to clear—or perhaps simply retreat. What had happened, what he had said, what he had wished—it was too large to make sense of now.
He glanced sidelong at Elizabeth.
She was frowning slightly, as if lost in thought. Her arms were folded tightly across her chest.
“How… how much did you hear?” he asked quietly.
Her head turned. “All of it, I believe. Your wish, and everything the… the fae said.”
He nodded once, accepting the descriptive title, and they walked on.
They had nearly reached the bend in the lane—the one that curved just before the parsonage came into view—when the faint sound of wheels on gravel reached them.
A carriage. Drawing up to the house.
Darcy narrowed his eyes.
It was a phaeton—high and elegant—and it came to a halt just before the gate.
Lady Catherine’s phaeton.
And beside it stood—
His heart stopped.
Elizabeth.
Or a woman who looked exactly like her.
But it was not the Elizabeth beside him.
This woman wore a modest lace cap tied primly beneath her chin, her gown plain and proper. She stood stiffly beside Mr. Collins, whose gloved hand rested possessively on her arm.
Her expression was not smiling. Not at ease. It was tight. Controlled. Her chin was slightly raised, her mouth pressed into a line. She looked—Darcy realized with a sick jolt—like someone determined to endure.
He acted without thinking. His hand shot out, grasping Elizabeth’s wrist, and he pulled her back from the bend, back into the shelter of the trees.
She stumbled, half turning on him. “Mr. Darcy—!”
He hushed her with a sharp motion, finger to his lips. “Quiet.”
Her eyes flashed in protest, but he pointed through the hedgerow.
“Look.”
She hesitated, then leaned forward, peering around the brush. Her eyes widened. All color drained from her cheeks, and she clamped her mouth closed.
Darcy’s heart hammered. He could hear the blood in his ears, the faint crunch of snow as Mr. Collins guided the other Elizabeth toward the parsonage door, her figure so achingly familiar in every line of it and yet wrong—utterly wrong.
He felt Elizabeth’s sleeve trembling beneath his fingers.
“What kind of madness is this?” he whispered, the words escaping before he knew he had spoken them.
Elizabeth merely shook her head dumbfounded, and he gripped her arm more tightly. The cold pressed in, and the snow fell softly, and still they crouched there, silent.
“What do we do?” he asked in a whisper.