Chapter 6
Elizabeth did not answer. She only stared, frozen at the sight of herself on the arm of Mr. Collins, wearing the lacy cap of a married woman.
“Come,” Darcy said at her side, “we must hear what they say.”
He took her arm, and she allowed him to pull her along, crouching low along the hedgerow until they reached the narrow path that edged the garden wall.
Elizabeth knelt beside Darcy in the cold, her heart thudding in her ears.
From that vantage point, they were able to see through the branches at the conversing trio.
The voices came clear.
“…and I will not have her called Lizzy,” Lady Catherine was saying in a clipped, cutting tone. “Such a name is vulgar. A woman of dignity uses her proper Christian name. I was never Kate. Or Cathy. I would have slapped any servant who tried it.”
There was a pause, then a hesitant voice—her voice, but not hers. Quieter. Smaller.
“My sister is called Kitty…”
A sharp rustle, and Elizabeth winced as she saw her arm being squeezed tightly by her… husband. Mr. Collins’s voice was low and urgent. “That will do, my dear.”
The sound of his voice made her skin crawl.
There was a strained silence before Collins spoke again. “May I inquire, your ladyship, after the health of your daughter? Will she be coming for Christmas tomorrow?”
Lady Catherine sniffed. “Mrs. Rothley,” she said, disdain in her tone. “No, I have not seen her since her wedding. I still cannot believe she has been wed to an old baron’s son. Heir to nothing, I am afraid—but it was all she was fit for. And even that she has bungled.”
“Oh dear,” Mr. Collins murmured.
“She has not quickened,” Lady Catherine said flatly. “Six months, and still no sign. Her physicians say she is too delicate. I believe the weakness must be from the de Bourgh side. She takes after her father, poor girl.”
There was the clatter of a cane against gravel, and Elizabeth held her breath. Darcy’s sleeve brushed hers as he leaned closer. She did not look at him. She could not.
Lady Catherine gave one final harumph, then: “See that your wife improves her curtsy. And for heaven’s sake, do not let her speak in public until she learns to mind her tongue.”
“Of course, your ladyship.” Mr. Collins opened the front door. “Come, my dear,” he said. “You must rest before dinner. It would not do to appear fatigued when next her ladyship calls.”
Elizabeth watched the other her—still stiff, still silent—step inside.
The door shut. Then came the sound of retreating footsteps, the crunch of carriage wheels, and silence.
Snowflakes drifted down in hushed rhythm, settling on cloaks and hedgerows alike. Neither she nor Darcy moved.
Until suddenly—he did.
Without a word, Darcy surged to his feet and turned, striding swiftly away down the lane in the direction of the departing phaeton.
∞∞∞
Darcy’s boots slipped slightly on the snowy gravel as he climbed the lane at speed. His mind spun. His breath came in quick clouds.
She had been there. Elizabeth—yet not Elizabeth—ushered into the parsonage like a stranger in her own life. Her mouth had not smiled. Her eyes had not danced. And Lady Catherine—his aunt—had treated her with the same disdain she reserved for any poor relation barely elevated above servitude.
The phaeton was just cresting the hill, its wheels dragging through the snow.
“Lady Catherine!” he called.
The driver turned, startled—but made no motion to stop.
Darcy broke into a jog. “Lady Catherine de Bourgh!”
At last the phaeton jerked to a halt. The horse snorted and stamped. Lady Catherine turned her head sharply.
The door swung open.
Darcy reached the carriage and planted one gloved hand on the side. “Aunt, what is happening here?”
Lady Catherine stared at him, then frowned. “Do I know you?”
He blinked. “What?”
Her eyes narrowed. “Who are you? What business do you have addressing me with such familiarity?”
Darcy reeled. “It is I, Fitzwilliam Darcy. Your nephew.”
Lady Catherine sat straighter in her seat, fury overtaking confusion. “I have no nephew.”
“You do,” he said, heart thudding. “You must! My mother was Anne Fitzwilliam, your sister.”
Her lips curled into a sneer. “My sister had one child: a weak, foolish girl who shamed the family and ran off with a fortune hunter this year. We do not speak her name.”
“No… no, that is not—” He faltered. “That is not how it happened.”
Lady Catherine raised her cane and rapped it against the inside of the phaeton. “Driver, take us on. And see this lunatic off before I summon the constable.”
The footman descended from the back, warily eyeing Darcy.
“My lady—”
“Drive.”
The driver flicked the reins, and the phaeton lurched forward. The footman hesitated only a moment before climbing back on.
Darcy stood, stunned, the snow falling thickly around him now.
A soft voice behind him broke the silence.
“Mr. Darcy.”
He turned to see Elizabeth—his Elizabeth—standing right behind him.
“You ought not have done that,” she told him.
He opened his mouth, closed it again. “She… she did not know me.”
“I know.” Elizabeth’s voice was low. “She did not appear to recognize me, either.” Her eyes searched his face, then flicked up the lane after the retreating carriage.
“I hesitated at first,” she continued. “I was afraid to be seen. What if she thought I was the other… me?” She swallowed. “But you looked so… I was afraid she might call someone to arrest you.”
“She thinks I do not exist,” he said bitterly. “And Georgiana. Dear God in heaven…”
Elizabeth was quiet for a moment. Then she reached out and laid a gloved hand on his sleeve.
“I know you exist,” she said.
He looked down at her hand, the only warm thing in the world, and rested his own hand over top. “This is madness.”
“Well, at least there is only one of you in this reality,” she said lightly. “I am not entirely certain about having a twin, even if no one recognizes me. Especially if she is resigned to that… fate.”
“Apparently, my absence from Netherfield compelled Mr. Collins to offer for you.”
She laughed, and he looked at her in confusion. “Oh, he offered for me even with you there. Did you not hear the story?” she said, her eyes dancing with mirth. “I simply refused him.”
Darcy winced. “Ah, yes. I had forgotten.” Well, she clearly did not make the refusal because she was waiting on me. I wonder why my presence altered her decision, then.
His musings were interrupted when she shivered violently. He looked around, startled to realize that the sun was already beginning to set. “It will be dark soon, and then we will be in very real danger of freezing to death.”
“But where can we go?” she asked
Darcy pondered a moment, then said, “There is an abandoned hunting lodge further into the woods. It is never used… at least, no one ever went there when I… when I existed. That would be the best place for solitude while we consider our next steps.”
Elizabeth gave a weary nod, tugging her shawl closer around her shoulders. “Lead the way, then. Unless your mysterious stranger appears again to offer directions.”
Darcy’s mouth twitched despite himself. “He seems to prefer dramatic exits. I doubt he will be of much help.”
They stepped cautiously from the edge of the trees, careful to keep well away from the parsonage.
The light was fading fast now, the low winter sun casting everything in silvery blue.
Elizabeth’s skirts dragged through the snow, the hem heavy with the damp, and Darcy noted again how pale she looked.
The couple did not speak for several minutes.
The path through the woods was barely visible under the fresh fall, but he remembered it well.
He had walked it dozens of times during his previous visits to Rosings—always alone, always when he needed to clear his mind.
It was odd to tread it now with someone beside him. Even more odd that it should be her.
“Do you think… do you think that Jane is dead? Or my father?”
He startled. “I beg your pardon?”
“I simply cannot imagine a scenario in which I would have accepted Mr. Collins’s proposal, unless there was a danger to my family. But if my father were dead, why would Mr. Collins be at Hunsford instead of Longbourn?”
He glanced sideways. “I do not know. It is difficult to tell what laws govern this… place.”
She gave a sharp little laugh. “I am not certain if there are any laws that govern it.”
Darcy shook his head. “This morning, I had plans to write you an apology. To explain myself better. I thought I had simply made a poor proposal.”
“You did,” she said dryly. Then, a moment later, “But… not so poor as Mr. Collins did the morning after the Netherfield ball.”
His lips quirked again, briefly. “I suppose I should take that as comfort.”
Another few minutes passed. The trees thickened. Their breath clouded before them, and Elizabeth’s pace slowed slightly. He offered his arm without comment; she took it without protest.
At last, the hunting lodge appeared through the branches: a small, weathered structure of gray stone and shuttered windows, half hidden beneath an overgrown pine. The door stood crooked on its hinges, but it opened easily enough with a firm shove.
Inside, it was dim and chill. But it was dry.
Darcy went to the hearth and began clearing out the old ashes while Elizabeth crossed to the single bench along the wall and sank onto it.
“I do not suppose you have matches in your coat pocket?” she asked hopefully.
“As a matter of fact,” he said, pulling a small tin from his inner pocket, “I do.”
She blinked. “Why on earth do you carry matches?”
“I am a man. I have pockets. If you had pockets, you would carry necessities as well.”
She gave a soft, reluctant laugh.
Darcy struck one and set it to the old kindling, fanning it gently until the fire began to take. It would not burn long—there was only a small stack of split logs inside, and he doubted anyone had replenished it in years—but the light was steady and the heat blessedly real.