Chapter 10
Elizabeth stirred beneath the heavy coverlet, warm and drowsy in the early light. The familiar scent of woodsmoke lingered from the hearth, and something firmer than a pillow cradled her head—something that rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm.
Darcy.
As she had the prior two mornings, she awoke and realized their positions had shifted from polite distance to something far more intimate during the night.
Her back was tucked snugly against his chest, one of his arms curled protectively around her waist, anchoring her in place.
His breath stirred the hair near her temple.
There was no awkwardness in it. Only warmth.
Comfort. As though they had always begun the day this way.
She did not move, did not wish to disturb him. She simply lay still, letting her mind drift over the events of the past few days.
Was it truly only three days since he had come to the parsonage at Rosings? Since he had made his ill-fated proposal and she had torn his pride to shreds? Since the fae—or angel, or whatever it was—had granted that terrible wish and erased him from the world?
And yet here they were, side by side in a narrow bed in a modest inn in Meryton. A false husband and wife in a world that no longer remembered them.
It ought to have been awkward.
It was not.
It felt like a lifetime—and yet, impossibly, like no time at all.
She smiled faintly and closed her eyes again, imagining what it might be like to wake like this every day. In this bed. With him.
The thought surprised her—but it did not frighten her.
He is not the man I thought him, she admitted silently. And perhaps I am no longer the woman I thought I was, either.
Their breakfast was simple—the remnants of the hamper from the Gardiners—and the time soon arrived that they could leave for Longbourn.
The weather was fair enough, with gray clouds and a brisk wind, though there was nothing in the skies that appeared threatening.
Elizabeth donned her gloves as they stepped out from the Boar and Barrel, and she began walking down the familiar footpath towards Longbourn.
Darcy matched her stride without comment. They walked in companionable silence, the village slowly waking around them, chimneys puffing soft trails of smoke into the sky. A few shopkeepers swept their thresholds. A dog barked somewhere in the distance.
It is strange, Elizabeth thought, how natural it feels to walk beside him now. How easy.
She glanced up once to find him watching her from the corner of his eye, and they both smiled.
“I never imagined,” she said softly, “that I would one day return to Longbourn in the company of Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy.”
His mouth twitched. “Neither did I. Let us hope your family is not too shocked by your presence—or mine.”
She smiled. “As friends of the new Mrs. Collins paying their respects, I daresay we will be invited to tea.”
But as they passed the hedgerow near Lucas Lodge, the wind picked up. A low rumble of thunder growled in the distance, and within moments the sky broke open.
It was not a gentle rain, but a deluge—soaking and wild, pouring down in sheets that blurred the path and plastered Elizabeth’s cloak to her frame.
She squealed and ducked her head, gripping the sides of her cloak.
Darcy immediately shrugged out of his greatcoat and held it above them both, tugging her closer beneath its span as they ran.
They dashed toward the familiar iron gate of Longbourn, her half-laughing gasps rising over the roar of the rain. Her slippers slipped on the muddy path, and Darcy’s arm caught her around the waist, steadying her.
“There!” she cried, pointing to the small outbuilding that sheltered the garden tools. He nodded, and they ducked beneath its shallow overhang, breathless and dripping.
Elizabeth pressed a hand to her bonnet, which had gone thoroughly askew, and looked up at him.
He was soaked. Rain streaked through his hair, water ran down the side of his jaw, and his cravat was utterly ruined. For a moment, they simply stood there, catching their breath, rain pounding the thatched roof just inches above their heads. Their hands still clasped.
But he was grinning.
So was she.
“I believe,” she said, breath hitching, “that your greatcoat is no longer the fashionable item it once was.”
“My valet will quit in protest,” he teased. “That is, if I still employed one. Alas, Mr. Smith has not the funds nor the station to be a man of leisure.”
They stood beneath the arch, the rain slapping down just beyond their shelter, and for a moment neither moved. As she continued looking up at him, she noticed once again just how tall he really was. The amusement on his face revealed a dimple in his cheek that she had never noticed before.
His eyes held hers, dark and full of something that made her breath catch in a different way. His hand was still at her waist. Her fingers still clutched his coat.
He was very close. Close enough that she could see the raindrops on his lashes. Close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath, warming the space between them.
Her heart beat strangely in her chest—too fast, too full.
His eyes flicked to her lips, which parted instinctively. She did not move.
He bent slightly, as if—
“Hoy there!”
The voice startled them both. Elizabeth jumped and turned.
Thomas, the gardener, stood a few paces off beneath his own caped cloak, holding a sack of potatoes and watching them with mild interest. His brows lifted high on his head, but he said nothing.
Elizabeth coughed, stepping hastily back from Darcy’s embrace.
“Can I help you, ma’am?” Thomas asked.
“We… were caught in the rain,” she said, unnecessarily. “We—we are here to call on the Bennets.”
He grunted and pointed them toward the front. “Best use the main door. Mrs. Hill will see you in.”
“Thank you,” Darcy said with his usual gravity, though his ears were visibly pink.
They followed the path around to the front door, Elizabeth’s heart thudding far too quickly for the chill. She tried to smooth her skirts and pin her bonnet more securely, but it was a losing battle. She looked like a drowned cat, and their wet boots squelched with ever step.
Darcy rapped smartly on the door. Within a moment, the bolts turned and the door cracked open to reveal Mrs. Hill, the woman who functioned as both housekeeper and lady’s maid. She looked them both up and down with a faint pursing of her lips.
“I… apologize for the intrusion,” Elizabeth began with as much poise as she could muster. “We are friends of the new Mrs. Collins, traveling north. She suggested we might pay our respects at Longbourn if our journey allowed.”
The housekeeper’s face softened at once. “Oh, bless you. Of course, of course. You poor things, caught in that mess.” She stepped aside and ushered them in. “You’ll want towels and the fire, no doubt. I’ll see to it. Come in, come in.”
Elizabeth crossed the threshold with a strange twisting in her chest, blinking at the familiar surroundings—so unchanged, and yet it felt as if years had passed since she last crossed the threshold.
She was home—and yet not home.
∞∞∞
Darcy’s shoulder brushed Elizabeth’s as he stepped in behind her, somehow giving him strength. From down the hall, he heard footsteps and the unmistakable sound of Mrs. Bennet approaching.
“Oh! Oh, my dear heavens!”
Darcy turned just in time to see the woman sweep into the entryway, all flustered affection and fluttering hands. Mrs. Bennet stopped short at the sight of them, her eyes widening at their soaked garments and dripping hair.
“You poor souls! You are drenched! Hill, where are the towels? Fetch them at once! Come—come in, come in—don’t stand there puddling on the floor!”
The years melted away in an instant. Darcy felt as though he was a child again, being fussed over after falling in the stream next to the dairy at Pemberley. But this was not his mother, and he was receiving warmth not as a child, but as a guest.
Still, the embrace of Mrs. Bennet’s concern was oddly comforting, even in its unfamiliarity.
“We are very sorry to trouble you, madam,” Elizabeth said, curtsying. “I am—my name is Beth Smith, and this is my husband, Mr. William Smith. We are new friends of your daughter, Elizabeth. Mrs. Collins told us we must call if our travels brought us through Hertfordshire.”
Mrs. Bennet’s face transformed from fussing to beaming. “Well! How very thoughtful of her. Oh, she is quite the mistress now, our Lizzy—Mrs. Collins, I mean,” she added with a fond laugh. “I always said she would do well in marriage. So clever! Such a sensible girl.”
Darcy had prepared himself for shrill nerves and empty flattery, not a flurry of towels and genuine welcome. He gave a polite bow in acknowledgment of the introduction.
Mrs. Bennet took in his height, his broad shoulders, and his noble bearing with increasing delight. He felt his cheeks begin to warm slightly at her frank appraisal.
“Well, I must say, you are a fine-looking pair! Quite fine, indeed.” She did not wait for a response. “You must come sit by the fire—Hill, the parlor, and for mercy’s sake, the hearth! Jane! Jane, where are you? Come help me see to our guests!”
“I assure you, madam,” he said, “we do not mean to disturb your household, especially the day after Boxing Day.” He looked around at the housekeeper, who was efficiently directing a maid to stoke up the fire.
“Oh, nonsense!” Mrs. Bennet flapped a hand.
“No trouble at all. As my brother did not come for Christmas this year, we gave the servants yesterday off instead of today. And a good thing, too! My nerves cannot bear to see good people soaked through! You must dry yourselves and take something hot. Hill, tea, if you please, and perhaps that broth Cook had left over.”