Chapter 8 #2
It was not yet late, but the winter dusk had fallen quickly. The air carried that sharp, metallic chill that foretold snow, and each breath she exhaled hung before her like smoke.
She rubbed her gloved hands together and tried not to think of how alone she looked—one solitary figure standing beneath a lamppost outside a shuttered townhouse.
Everything about the day had been strange beyond comprehension.
No—the past two days.
The magic—if she could call it that without being guilty of heresy—had turned her life upside down.
Her family altered beyond recognition. Herself doubled.
And at the center of it all, Fitzwilliam Darcy—who should have been the very last man in England she could ever trust—was now the only person she could.
Her lips curved faintly despite herself. How absurd.
Not two days ago on Christmas Eve, she had despised him.
She had thought him proud, intolerant, cruelly judgmental.
And yet—there had been no cruelty in the man who shared his blanket with her in that freezing lodge.
There had been no arrogance in the man who trembled when he realized his sister might be lost to ruin.
There was something raw in him now. Stripped bare. Vulnerable.
And how well he had hidden it before!
She felt a pang of guilt as she thought of her own words—the furious declaration that she wished he had never been born. It had been said in anger, and now it had become true in some unfathomable way. She had set this madness in motion.
A wave of remorse washed through her, cold and heavy.
Footsteps echoed along the street.
Elizabeth turned her head slightly. A man was walking from the corner—well-dressed, his hat pulled low, his greatcoat swinging with each confident stride. A gentleman, by all appearances. He passed her at first without so much as a glance.
But then he stopped.
He turned.
His eyes caught hers under the lamplight, and something in his expression shifted—an assessing, interested look that made her stomach twist.
He retraced his steps. “Happy Christmas,” he said, his tone too smooth. “Cold evening.
Elizabeth inclined her head politely but said nothing.
“You should not be standing out here alone,” he went on. “Pretty little thing like you.”
“I am waiting for someone,” she replied, her voice firm.
“So I see.” His gaze lingered on her cloak, her boots, her hands. “I would have thought you had found warmer company by now.”
Her pulse quickened. “Sir, I think you mistake me.”
“Oh, I do not think I do,” he said, his smile tightening. “No lady of breeding would be out here unchaperoned after dark. So tell me the truth, sweetheart—how much?”
She recoiled, heat and fury flooding her face. “You are mistaken,” she said again, more sharply. “I am not—”
His expression hardened. “Then what are you? A servant? A tradesman’s girl playing coy?” He stepped closer, his breath thick with brandy. “You would not stand out here if you do not want attention. Perhaps you are waiting for it.”
“Let me go,” she said, but her voice trembled.
He caught her wrist. “No need to pretend.”
“Unhand me!”
Her protest only made him sneer. “Hush. You will wake the neighborhood.”
He tugged at her arm, dragging her a few paces toward the darker side of the street. Panic surged up her throat. She tried to wrench free, but his grip was iron.
“I said let me go!”
He jerked her harder. “You’ll thank me once—”
She screamed.
The sound tore through the quiet street, echoing off the shuttered houses.
The man’s hand clamped over her mouth, but she bit down—hard. He swore, stumbling back, and she twisted away, gasping for air as she let out another shriek.
Then another sound—a door flung open, boot steps pounding against the stone.
“Elizabeth!”
Darcy’s voice.
Relief surged through her chest, too great to speak. She turned toward the sound, and there was Darcy: coat unfastened, hair wind-tossed, face pale with fury.
Her assailant stepped back, eyeing the approaching figure warily.
Darcy was taller, broader, his stride full of purpose. The gentleman’s narrowed gaze flicked over Darcy’s shoulders, his fists, his eyes. He scowled.
“Tch,” the man muttered, shaking out the hand she had bitten. “Keep your woman under better regulation.”
Elizabeth stiffened in outrage, but the stranger had already turned and strode away, muttering to himself as he disappeared into the shadows.
Darcy reached her side. “Are you hurt?”
She shook her head. “No. No, I am only…” She pressed her trembling hands to her midsection. “Startled.”
He exhaled, long and uneven, and then—without waiting—he gathered her into his arms.
She gasped softly against his shoulder, but did not resist. The warmth of him pressed through her cloak and into her skin, thawing the fear that had frozen her limbs. His gloved hand cradled the back of her head as though she were something precious.
“You are safe now,” he murmured into her hair.
She shut her eyes for just a moment.
Then, lifting her face to his coat buttons, she asked, “Were you successful?”
He leaned back slightly, enough to meet her eyes. “Yes. The hiding place was untouched. I found more than enough to sustain us for…” he hesitated. “Enough for several weeks, if need be.”
A breath of relief escaped her lips, and she sagged a little in his embrace. Her body still shivered despite the fire in her cheeks.
Darcy noticed at once. Without a word, he drew her even closer, wrapping his arms more snugly about her as though to ward off every remaining chill in the air—and in her heart.
“Come,” he said softly, his voice low and steady at her ear. “Let us find a coaching inn for the night.”
And she nodded. This time, she did not let go of his hand.
∞∞∞
The sign above the coaching inn creaked on its rusted hinges as the wind pushed against it. “The Ox and Crown,” it read—weatherworn but respectable, with a warm yellow glow in the windows and a promise of privacy in the narrow alley just off Fleet Street.
Darcy pushed open the door and held it for Elizabeth, whose cheeks were still blotched with cold and alarm. She stepped inside without a word.
The innkeeper looked up from behind the counter. “Evenin’. Happy Christmas. Room?”
“Happy Christmas. Yes.” Darcy pulled out a few coins from the small purse he had tucked in his coat. “One room. For myself and my wife.”
Elizabeth glanced at him sidelong, but said nothing as she removed her gloves. The innkeeper accepted the coins without scrutiny and nodded briskly.
“Hot water?” he asked, looking them up and down.
“If you please. We have been traveling for quite a while. And—” Darcy paused, then added, “—could you send a girl to the nearest clothier or dry goods shop, if there is one open on Boxing Day? We require a change of garments. Something plain and serviceable for a lady of my wife’s size and—” he dared one glance at Elizabeth, “—excellent taste.”
“And for you, sir?”
“Anything respectable. Coat, shirt, trousers.”
The innkeeper called out for Meg, a gangly, red-cheeked girl who appeared from the back room. Darcy handed her several coins and gave instructions, watching as she nodded eagerly and disappeared into the night.
Their room was on the second floor. Small, but clean. A narrow bed with a quilt, a basin stand, a hearth already lit with a cheery fire. Elizabeth disappeared into the washroom with a murmur of thanks as a maid arrived bearing a steaming pitcher of water.
Darcy waited outside, standing in the corridor with one hand pressed against the wall. His body ached with fatigue, but his mind would not rest.
The scene at Darcy House haunted him.
That home—his home—had been like an extension of Pemberley. He had taken it for granted, walked its halls in boyhood, read by its library fire as a young man. And now it was gone. Sold off to satisfy another man’s debts.
Wickham.
His jaw clenched. If Georgiana had truly married him—willingly or otherwise—then the implications went far beyond empty coffers. She would be vulnerable, isolated, perhaps even mistreated.
But what could he do? He was no one. Not in this world. He had no legal authority. No brotherly claim. He could not even gain entrance to his own house.
He thought of the safe in the study and the money he had collected from there. At least Wickham had not known of that. A small mercy.
Wickham.
But Georgiana…
He closed his eyes, his fist tightening against the wooden frame. Memories of Christmases in the past flooded through his mind.
Georgiana at seven years of age, her curls tied with a red ribbon as she shyly presented him with a drawing of a lopsided gingerbread figure she had made herself. She had clung to his waist when he praised it, her eyes bright with pride…
A bright Christmas afternoon, teaching her to skate on the frozen lake on the front lawn of Pemberley, her laughter ringing across the ice as he steadied her hands. She had declared it the happiest day of her life.
The year that Georgiana had insisted upon giving every servant a gift she had sewn herself. The stitches were crooked and the ribbons mismatched, yet the entire household had worn them proudly for her sake.
One Christmas morning when she had crept into his chamber before dawn, whispering that she feared Pemberley would forget about Christmas due to their father’s illness. He had carried her down the stairs in his arms to show her the decorations.
The first Christmas after their father’s death, when Georgiana had slipped her small hand into his and asked if they would still hang Father’s favorite holly wreath. He had promised her they would, even though the sight of it nearly broke him.
But then the image of that man grabbing Elizabeth next appeared in his mind. The sound of her cry; he had never felt terror like he did in that moment. Not even when he had arrived at Ramsgate and saw Georgiana pale and trembling as Wickham fled.
But this time, he had nearly been too late. Not by hours, but by seconds.
He would never forget the look on Elizabeth’s face when he reached her. Or the fury that had surged in his chest. Or the way she had trembled in his arms.
He exhaled through his nose and forced himself to calm.
They could not go to Derbyshire. Not yet.
Elizabeth’s family mattered as much to her as Georgiana did to him. He saw it in every line of her face when she spoke of Jane. Of Mr. Bennet. Of her sorrow at being forgotten.
And Hertfordshire was on the way.
He would go with her. Help her discover what had changed. What could be set right. Perhaps, if they could understand the rules of this strange world—this twisted echo of their lives—they could find a way to reverse it.
Behind the door, he heard the sound of water pouring and fabric shifting.
Soon it would be his turn.
And after that… whatever waited next.