Chapter 9
Elizabeth stirred as pale morning light filtered through the thin curtains of the coaching inn. And just as the morning before, she awoke with a warm arm draped across her waist.
Darcy.
Sometime in the night, his arm had crept around her waist and held her gently as they both succumbed to exhaustion. Now his breathing was even and deep behind her, his presence a steady warmth that spread through her like the sunrise on Oakham Mount.
She lay still, eyes open, watching the light shift along the wall. It was not unpleasant. In truth, it was… comforting.
How strange.
Last night came back in fragments: washing with the hot water Darcy had ordered before she even asked, changing into the new shift he had sent the maid to fetch, and him slipping into the bed beside her—once again, at her insistence.
The chair near the fire would be just as uncomfortable as the floor, she reasoned.
Besides, she trusted him to be honorable. He had not once looked at her with anything but courtesy. Not even in their close quarters.
But the reality was she felt safest with him sleeping at her side. Her cheeks warmed slightly as she remembered him whisper, “Happy Christmas, Miss Elizabeth” before they both fell into a deep sleep.
This is probably the strangest Christmas ever… well, save the first one.
She bit her lip in consternation. She had been wrong about Darcy in Hertfordshire… so very wrong.
She had judged him. For his pride, his reserve, his bluntness. She had clung to that remark at the Meryton assembly—not handsome enough to tempt me—as if it were proof of his character. She had wielded it like a sword, never once questioning whether her own pride had made her blind.
Darcy had misconstrued Jane’s motives, but she had done the same with regards to him. It was not so different, and she could not fault him for not realizing Jane was guarded when she did not see it in him.
She shifted slightly, trying not to wake him. But his arm withdrew at once, and a moment later he was sitting up behind her, clearing his throat softly.
“Good morning,” he said, his voice a bit hoarse with sleep.
“Good morning,” she replied, keeping her gaze on the sliver of light beneath the door.
He stood and moved to the basin, pouring water to wash his face. She remained in bed for another moment, uncertain how to broach what she now knew she must say.
They dressed in relative silence, both moving with the ease of routine and weariness.
When they emerged downstairs, the innkeeper had already arranged for a light breakfast and summoned a coach.
The fare was paid from Darcy’s recovered funds, and the public coach—bound for Hertfordshire—was set to depart within the hour.
As they waited in the yard, watching their meager luggage loaded atop the coach, Elizabeth turned to him.
“Mr. Darcy.”
He looked down at her, brows raised slightly.
She drew a breath. “I believe I owe you an apology.”
His eyes searched hers. “For what?”
“For… my behavior. When you proposed.” Her cheeks warmed, but she pressed on. “I was angry—righteously so, I thought—but I now see I was just as guilty of presumption as you.”
His mouth opened slightly, but he said nothing.
“I judged you on very little, and I clung to that judgment far too long. I thought I knew your character, but I see now I did not. Not truly.”
Still, he did not speak. His gaze was steady but unreadable.
“I am sorry,” she said quietly. “Truly.”
After a long pause, he replied in a voice just above a whisper. “You were not wrong in everything you said, Miss Bennet. But… thank you. It means more than you know.”
She gave a small nod, unsure what else to say.
The coachman called for passengers to board, and they climbed in without another word. The other occupants precluded any further conversation, and that was just as well.
Elizabeth settled beside him on the bench, staring out at the rooftops as the carriage jolted into motion. The passing scenery caused her thoughts to shift from the man beside her to their destination.
Longbourn. What will we find there?
She had spent the last day imagining possibilities, but none settled easily. Why had she accepted Mr. Collins in this version of the world? What could have driven her to such a fate?
Only one answer made any sense: to save her family.
Has something happened to Papa?
The thought struck hard in her chest. If he had been ill—if he had died—the urgency for security would have been greater than she had ever known.
And she, in her grief and desperation, might have bowed to it.
If he were gone, there would have been no support, even if she had wished to refuse Mr. Collins.
She bit her lip. Please, she thought silently, please let him be well.
And Jane… where was Jane?
She had not seen her at Rosings, nor heard her name. She had searched the Gardiners’ faces for some reference, some mention, but there had been nothing. No indication of a wedding. No talk of London visits. No sign of the gentle sister who had always steadied her.
Had Jane married? Perhaps to Bingley? Or did this world’s Elizabeth marry Mr. Collins to protect Jane from a lifetime of misery? After all, if Darcy’s absence somehow prevented Bingley from going to Netherfield, then Jane would have been the one being thrust at their cousin.
The carriage jolted over a stone in the road, and Elizabeth blinked against the window. The landscape outside was becoming more familiar, and she knew it would not be long now until she had answers.
She exhaled and drew her shawl more tightly around her shoulders.
Whatever they found at Longbourn… she would face it.
And she would not face it alone.
She turned her gaze to the man beside her. Silent. Steady. His presence—once a source of stress and frustration—was now the one constant in an unfamiliar world.
He must have sensed her watching, for he turned to meet her eyes. For a moment, neither spoke. The warmth in his gaze startled her—gentle, reassuring, a silent promise that whatever lay ahead, he would not leave her to face it alone.
Across from them, one of the other passengers—a man with thinning hair and a self-important air—cleared his throat and leaned slightly forward. “Forgive me, miss,” he said pompously, “but your face seems familiar. I cannot help but think—have we met before? Perhaps in London?”
Elizabeth blinked. The cadence was uncanny. If she closed her eyes, it could have been Mr. Collins himself.
Before she could find a polite response, Darcy spoke with quiet firmness. “My wife’s face is often remarked upon, sir. But I assure you, she is quite singular.”
The man gave a startled blink, muttered something unintelligible, and sat back with a sniff. The woman next to him leaned forward slightly and said with a cheerful smile, “You two make such a handsome couple. Newlyweds?”
Elizabeth opened her mouth, unsure how to respond—but Darcy’s voice came smoothly and without hesitation. “Yes. Just a few days ago.”
“Oh, how lovely,” the woman cooed. “Still in the honeymoon phase.”
Elizabeth caught the twinkle in Darcy’s eye, and before she could stop herself, she murmured beneath her breath, “Let us hope it lasts longer than the wedding night.”
Darcy coughed once—violently—and turned to hide a grin.
She pressed her lips together, trying not to laugh. The other passengers took no notice. The coach rattled on toward Meryton.
But between Elizabeth and Darcy, the warmth lingered.
∞∞∞
The village had not changed.
That was Darcy’s first thought as the coach rolled into Meryton’s square: the streets narrow and uneven, the buildings weathered but clean, the small shops clustered like hens in a roost. The late December wind stirred the last brown leaves in the gutters and carried the mingled scent of chimney smoke and yeast from the bakery.
And yet, everything had changed.
He descended first and turned to offer his hand to Elizabeth. She accepted with quiet poise, but as her boots touched the cobblestones, he saw the flicker of hesitation in her eyes. Her gaze moved slowly over the familiar lane, as though each building were a test of memory.
She smiled faintly at a woman crossing the square—a friendly, open expression that faltered when the woman looked her way with confusion, nodded politely, and moved on.
Darcy saw it clearly this time. The moment Elizabeth’s heart squeezed behind her calm expression.
He fiercely wished to be able to do something, but what comfort could he offer when the universe itself had conspired to replace her with another?
They made their way to the inn Elizabeth suggested. A small sign above the tavern door creaked in the wind: The Boar and Barrel. Hardly elegant, but it would do. He requested a private room and signed the register as Mr. and Mrs. William Smith, handing over the money without flinching.
They climbed the stairs and set their modest belongings down. The bed was narrow but clean; the hearth cold, but well-stocked. It would do.
“It is too late for calls,” Elizabeth murmured as she peeked out the room’s single window. “They will be at dinner… or preparing for it.”
Darcy nodded. “Tomorrow, then.”
She turned from the window, her brows knit in thought. “But if we were to walk the village now… perhaps we might hear something.”
A ghost of a smile tugged at his mouth. “You intend to eavesdrop?”
“I intend to shop,” she said archly. “If the townspeople insist on speaking freely in front of paying customers, well—that is hardly our fault.”
They bundled against the cold once more and stepped back into the narrow street, passing modest households already shuttered against the dusk.
The bell over the door gave a cheerful jingle as they entered the milliner’s shop.
The scent of lavender and starch lingered in the air, and bolts of muslin and ribbon-lined shelves painted a far prettier picture than anything Darcy had seen in recent days.