Chapter 29 #2
The thought struck her like a blow. Two months—could a dream truly span two months? She could still recall the details with painful clarity: the cold air of the Derbyshire nights, the crunch of frost beneath her boots, the way Darcy’s voice deepened when he said her name.
“No dream could feel so real,” she whispered.
Yet here she was, in the same bed, the same room, as if none of it had ever been.
She rose and dressed quickly, her fingers clumsy on the buttons. She needed proof—some hint that she had not imagined it all. The house was quiet save for the faint clatter of pans below. The only light came from the kitchen, spilling into the hallway.
Elizabeth descended the narrow stairs, her mind spinning.
When she stepped into the kitchen, the familiar warmth and bustle met her—the glow of the hearth, the smell of baking bread. The cook looked up from her work, her broad face creasing into a smile.
“Happy Christmas, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth stopped short. “Happy—Christmas?”
“Aye, miss. The snow’s let up, but it is a bitter cold morning.”
Elizabeth’s breath came out in a shaky laugh. “Christmas.”
So it was true. She was back to the very morning after that awful proposal—the one that had driven Darcy into despair.
The thought made her stomach twist. If this is Christmas morning again…
She pressed a hand to her lips.
He will be there. He will go to the grove. He will make the wish.
If it had all been real—if he remembered her—then he would surely already be there now, assuming she went there as well.
And if not…
She did not let herself finish the thought.
“Thank you,” she murmured distractedly to the cook, who looked at her in mild confusion as Elizabeth turned and rushed back up the stairs. Within minutes she had pulled on her boots, threw her pelisse about her shoulders, and tied her bonnet with trembling fingers.
The cold struck her like a wall as she stepped outside. The fields glittered with frost, the air sharp and thin. Her breath came in clouds as she hurried along the familiar path through the grove.
Her thoughts tumbled over one another. If it was a dream, how do I speak to him? What do I say? How can I even tell if he remembers?
The questions echoed in her mind as she climbed the small rise that overlooked the stream.
Then she stopped.
Darcy stood at the water’s edge. His greatcoat was buttoned to his throat, his hair ruffled by the wind, his head bowed as though in prayer. The same as before.
Her breath caught.
She could not move. She watched him—his stillness, his quiet intensity—as though afraid any sound would shatter the fragile moment.
He looked down into the icy water, and for an instant she thought she saw him mouth the words—I wish I had never been born.
“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered.
He turned.
Their eyes met.
Both froze.
The world held its breath.
∞∞∞
For a long moment he could not move.
Elizabeth stood across the frozen stream, her breath pale in the winter air, her eyes wide with the same astonishment that held him rooted to the spot.
He took a hesitant step forward, unsure whether she was a vision conjured by his desperate mind. She bit her lip, just as she always did when uncertain, and the small, familiar gesture pierced him like light through darkness.
He took another step. She did the same.
When she raised her hand toward him, he noticed that she wore no gloves. Her fingers trembled in the cold.
“Are your hands not cold?” he asked softly. His voice sounded foreign in his own ears, rough and low from disuse.
Then he saw it.
Around her finger—fragile, green, and impossibly real—was the flower.
The snowdrop.
The breath went out of him. He stared, unable to speak, every muscle frozen between disbelief and wonder.
She followed his gaze, looked down—and gasped. Her eyes flew up to his, wide with comprehension.
They stared at one another, the truth dawning between them like sunlight breaking through cloud.
“You remember?” he whispered, taking a step nearer.
“I do,” she breathed, her voice trembling. “Do you?”
He did not answer with words.
In two strides he was across the narrow strip of frozen ground, his hands closing around her before thought could catch up with motion. The instant his mouth met hers, the world vanished.
Every ounce of desperation, of fear, of sleepless longing poured into that kiss.
All the nights he had lain awake wondering if their experience together was real, all the mornings he had awakened with her—they found their release now.
Her lips were soft, warm, alive beneath his, and when she kissed him back, he thought his heart might burst.
She made a small sound—a quiet, breathless sigh that undid him utterly. Her hands found his hair, sliding through it, holding him to her. He drew her closer still, the ache in him fierce and sweet, every muscle yearning toward her as though to prove she was flesh, not dream.
He pulled her tightly against him, needing her near enough that the chill of the morning could never touch her again—
—and something hard pressed sharply between them.
He stilled.
Confused, he reached down, sliding his hand between them to his front coat pocket. His fingers closed around something smooth and cool.
He drew it out and stared.
The pebble.
The same small, gray stone she had given him beside the river at Pemberley.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth could hardly think. The world seemed to have narrowed to the circle of his arms and the taste of his kiss. When he drew back, she was trembling—partly from the cold, mostly from the force of feeling that still coursed through her.
Then he reached into his pocket, his brow furrowing, and drew out something small.
A pebble.
For a moment she could only stare at it, blinking in disbelief.
The smooth gray surface was unmistakable—the same pebble she had pressed into his hand beside the river at Pemberley, the one she had told him to keep as a reminder of his worth. She remembered watching him slip it into his coat pocket.
But not this coat.
He had worn a rough, ill-fitting coat then—one they had purchased in that small market town after escaping Pemberley with nothing but what they could carry.
The coat of a tradesman, not a gentleman.
Yet this pebble had found its way here, into the fine wool of his present jacket, as though it had crossed the boundary of that vanished world with him.
How is it possible?
Does it even matter?
Her mind reeled. She no longer doubted that their time together had been real, but this—this small, solid token in his palm—was further evidence that defied any explanation.
Which meant their love was real.
Her heart swelled.
Without thinking, she reached up and touched his cheek. His skin was cold, his jaw rough from the morning chill. He covered her hand with his own, his thumb tracing slow circles against her wrist before he turned her palm and pressed a kiss into it.
The warmth of his lips against her bare skin sent a shiver through her—not of cold, but of remembrance. She closed her eyes, breathing him in, letting herself simply feel.
When he spoke again, his voice was low, gentle, steady in a way that soothed her racing heart.
“Your hands are cold,” he murmured. “We must get you inside—warm you up.”
She opened her eyes and smiled faintly. “And here I thought you would scold me for running off without my gloves.”
He gave a soft, breathless laugh—the first she had heard since waking in this world. “You would not be the Elizabeth I know if you did not ignore good sense now and then.”
“Do you ever tire of saving me?”
“Never,” he said simply. “Though I admit, you do make it necessary with alarming frequency.”
She laughed softly, the sound mingling with the faint whisper of the wind through the trees. “Then it seems we are both creatures of habit.”
“Indeed,” he said, his smile deepening. “And for once, I am content to repeat myself.”
He reached for her hand again, enclosing her fingers within his own. Together they began the slow walk back toward the parsonage, their footsteps crunching over the thin crust of frost.
Neither spoke for some time. The morning light was soft upon the fields, and the world felt still—suspended between what had been and what was yet to come.
As they reached the lane, Elizabeth glanced up at him, her breath forming small clouds in the cold air. “It truly happened,” she whispered, half to herself.
Darcy’s hand tightened around hers. “Yes,” he said quietly. “It truly did.”
They exchanged a look of quiet wonder, and then—still hand in hand—they turned the final corner toward Hunsford, where the first curls of chimney smoke rose into the pale winter sky.