Chapter 7
Elizabeth awoke slowly the morning after Christmas, cocooned in warmth. The fire still crackled gently in the hearth, its orange glow flickering behind her closed lids.
The maid must have stoked it without waking me. That was kind of her, to be so quiet.
A soft weight rested across her waist, solid and warm, and the steady sound of breathing close to her ear told her she was not alone.
For a moment, she thought Jane had come to her side in the night, as she sometimes had when they were children—seeking comfort or warmth on a particularly cold winter’s evening.
But then she shifted slightly, and the body pressed against hers was not soft and slender like Jane’s.
It was firm. Hard, even. And the arm across her waist was heavier than Jane’s—and distinctly… hairier.
Her eyes flew open.
Memory flooded in like icy water: the grove, the duplicate version of herself, the strange fae man, and Mr. Darcy—who now, unmistakably, lay beside her.
Every muscle went taut.
She dared not move. Not yet. Perhaps, if she kept very still, he would remain asleep and she could extract herself with dignity. Her breath slowed, and she kept her limbs perfectly still, feigning slumber.
And then, with the slightest shift, the arm lifted.
Darcy stirred beside her, drew a breath, and withdrew.
She heard the rustle of cloth as he rose from the cot, the soft creak of his boots on the floor. Then a gentle pull of the blanket, tucking it more securely around her.
Her eyes fluttered open just in time to see him shrug on his coat and slip outside.
The door thumped closed behind him.
Elizabeth exhaled.
She sat up slowly, brushing back her hair and glancing around the cabin. It looked no different by morning light—still dim, still bare—but the fire gave it an air of something close to comfort. Her thoughts, however, were far from settled.
We need a plan.
She wanted—needed—to return to Longbourn. To see her father. To discover if Jane had fared better in this strange version of the world. Her imagination painted terrible images: her sister alone, abandoned, her heart broken. Or, worse still, married to someone wholly unsuitable.
But perhaps—perhaps!—if she had married Mr. Bingley… that could be why Mr. Collins chose Elizabeth instead of Jane.
She felt a sudden, wild pang of hope.
Surely Mr. Collins marrying her signified something good for Jane, did it not?
The door opened again, letting in a blast of cold air—and Darcy, his arms full of wood.
He set the logs by the hearth and turned toward her. “How are you feeling?” he asked.
At that exact moment, her stomach gave a loud, unmistakable growl.
Her face flushed crimson.
Darcy blinked, then gave a wry smile. “Ah,” he said gently. “I believe I have my answer.”
She tugged the blanket up a bit more and gave him a sheepish glance. “Food is not the only necessity at present,” she said in a near-whisper. “There is… also the matter of a chamber pot.”
His eyes widened slightly, then darted to the far corner of the room where a dusty bucket sat beside a coil of rope and a rusted lantern. “I can step outside,” he said quickly, already reaching for the door.
“Thank you,” she murmured, mortified.
He left her alone, and she made quick use of the bucket and donned her clothes from the day before. When she was finished, she wrapped herself again in the blanket and carried the makeshift chamber pot outside, where Darcy was pacing the edge of the clearing.
“I will clean it,” she said at once, before he could offer.
“You should not—”
“Please allow me to maintain some dignity,” she said firmly.
He bowed slightly and looked away.
Elizabeth scrubbed it out with handfuls of snow, then placed it discreetly near the edge of the lodge.
When she returned, the fire had been stoked again. Darcy stood near the hearth, arms folded.
“We cannot remain here,” he said without preamble.
“I agree,” she replied, brushing her hands dry on her skirts. “We will freeze—or starve. Besides, there is nothing to be learned here.”
He nodded. “Where do you suggest we go?”
She sat on the edge of the cot. “I believe we must begin with Longbourn.”
His eyebrows lifted.
“Surely your absence from Netherfield, along with my having married Mr. Collins, means that your friend must have offered for my sister. At least, I hope that is what happened.”
“And if it is not?”
“Then at least we may learn something more of this world. If my family is there… if they remember me.” She paused. “You will likely wish to go to London. To check on your sister.”
His face darkened slightly. “Yes, although she may be at Pemberley if… if she is married.”
“We will need funds,” she said. “Do you have any with you?”
Darcy reached into the inner pocket of his coat and withdrew a coin purse. “Fortunately, yes. And I always carry a sovereign sewn into my coat lining.”
Elizabeth gave a small smile. “Then we may avoid starvation. I have some, as well—about three pounds tucked into the hem of my dress, and some coin in my sewing roll.”
Together, they retrieved their coins and counted: fifteen pounds in Darcy’s purse, and just over fourteen shillings between the two of them hidden in various folds and linings. Enough, perhaps, for food, for travel—for something.
“I admit,” Darcy said ruefully, “I have no notion what things cost individually. Purchases are made for the household in bulk.”
“A loaf of bread and a pound of cheese may cost a shilling or so,” she said. “If we are careful, we can make that food last a day or even two.”
He nodded. “And a public coach is usually one shilling per mile, divided amongst the passengers.”
“It is nearly fifty miles to Longbourn,” she said, frowning. “Too far to walk.”
“We can travel by public coach,” he assured her. “If we can reach the posting inn at Hunsford or Westerham, we might secure passage north.”
“And what shall we say if anyone asks who we are?”
He hesitated, then said, “Would you be opposed to traveling as a married couple? It would invite less scrutiny.”
She felt her cheeks flushing and strove to keep her voice calm. “Perhaps we are William and Beth Smith. We can be new friends of Mrs. Collins who are traveling, and we have been asked to call on her family.”
He stared at her for a long moment. Then he gave a soft laugh. “Beth Smith,” he said. “That may take some getting used to.”
She flushed, but her chin lifted. “We have been through stranger things.”
“Yes,” he said quietly, “we have.”
And then neither spoke for a while—both thinking of what they had left behind, and what they might be walking toward.
∞∞∞
The road was half-frozen beneath their boots, the snow hardened overnight into a crust that crunched underfoot. Darcy walked a step behind Elizabeth at first, watching the movement of her cloak as it brushed through brittle hedgerows.
He should be thinking about their plan. About coin and carriages and destinations. About the utterly fractured reality they had woken into.
But he was really doing instead was thinking of that morning.
Of warmth. Of her soft breath against his collarbone. Of the peaceful, nearly unimaginable moment when he had opened his eyes to find Elizabeth Bennet—his Elizabeth—curled beneath his arm like something precious and unguarded.
Her curls had tickled his chin.
For the briefest instant, he had not remembered anything amiss. It had felt natural. Right. His arm around her waist. The quiet of morning. The faint scent of lavender and firewood.
Then memory had come crashing back. And shame with it.
And yet—even now, even with the weight of uncertainty pressing in on all sides—he could not regret those hours spent in her presence.
To have her near, without artifice or performance, was something he had never dared imagine.
And yet it had happened. And she had laughed with him, even teased him, just before sleep had claimed them both.
He cleared his throat and lengthened his stride to match hers.
They reached the posting inn—a narrow, soot-smudged building on the edge of the village—and stepped inside. The warmth hit them like a wave, along with the scent of stale ale, fried onions, and damp wool.
Darcy moved to the counter while Elizabeth waited by the door. The thin, balding man behind the desk looked up at his approach. “Happy Christmas, governor.”
“Happy Christmas,” Darcy replied automatically, his surprise evident. I had forgotten yesterday was Christmas.
“One-way to Meryton, Hertfordshire, please,” he continued, retrieving a handful of coins from his coat. “Via public coach. Two seats.”
The man scratched at his stubbled chin. “Coach to Meryton departs in half an hour. It’s the only one today, seeing as it’s Christmas. There’s a stop in Town first, o’course. All northbound goes through London this time of year.”
Darcy blinked. “London?”
“Aye. Long Acre in Covent Garden.”
Darcy stepped back, glancing toward Elizabeth. She raised a brow.
He motioned toward the door. “Excuse us a moment.”
They stepped into the cold again, and Darcy exhaled a breath that steamed in the frosty air.
“If there is a stop in London…” he began.
“…we could see my aunt and uncle.”
He paused, his train of thought lost with her interruption. “I beg your pardon?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner—my mother’s brother and his wife. They would welcome us, I am sure.”
“Even on the day after Christmas?”
“Oh!” Elizabeth’s expression told him she had entirely forgotten about the holiday as well.
“They may not be there, then. Usually they come to Longbourn. Although, if they were there for my—” she grimaced “—wedding, then they may be back in London already. My uncle cannot leave his business for long, and my young cousins do not enjoy travel from their home.”