Chapter Twenty-Five
I awoke lying on the floor, my head throbbing from where I’d knocked myself out.
My whole body ached, and there was something that smelled suspiciously like vomit nearby, but thankfully the excruciating pain was starting to subside.
What the hell had happened there? Nick had never mentioned that reading someone back into a book felt like undergoing abdominal surgery without anesthetic.
It better have bloody worked, because I wouldn’t be doing that again in a hurry.
“Has Darcy gone?” I mumbled groggily, pushing myself up. “Nick?”
There was no answer, and I looked over my shoulder to where he’d been standing.
Nick wasn’t there. Instead, where he should have been, was a young man dressed in a duck-egg blue servant’s uniform, holding a tray containing a silver coffeepot and looking at me as if I had three heads.
FUUUUUUUCK, I thought. And then I passed out again.
* * *
When I came to, I was no longer lying face down on the floor but in a large four-poster bed, under a sheet and thick blanket.
My head was still pounding, and I felt like I might be about to puke again, so I stayed lying and cautiously turned my head to see where I was.
It was a bedroom—obviously—but unlike any I’d ever slept in before.
The room was dim, lit only by a few candles, but I could see the walls were covered in an ornate gold pattern, and a fancy-looking dressing table sat against the far wall.
To my right were two large windows, and in the dusky light outside, I could make out wide, open greenery that was definitely not Cecil Court.
I closed my eyes and took several deep breaths, willing myself to wake up from whatever terrifying concussion dream this was.
But when I opened them again, I was in exactly the same place. Oh no, no, no!
“Ah, you have awoken.”
I turned my head, wincing at the pain that shot through it with the sudden movement, and saw a woman walking into the room.
She looked to be about twenty and was dressed in a simple but elegant Empire line dress.
Her hair was pinned up, and she was looking at me with curious eyes.
Fine eyes. My God, was that who I thought it was?
“Are you feeling any better now you have rested?” the woman said as she reached the side of my bed.
“Where am I?” I croaked, dreading the answer I was about to hear.
“You are in Netherfield Park, the home of Mr. Charles Bingley. Although how you came to be here is more of a mystery.”
Oh shit, what the hell had I done? I closed my eyes and took another deep breath to try to calm my palpitating heart.
“Are you able to explain how you arrived in the drawing room?” the woman—I couldn’t bring myself to admit who she really was—asked. “One of the underbutlers found you on the floor while on his way to serve coffee last night, at which point you lost consciousness and were carried up here.”
“Last night? How long have I been asleep?”
“Why, I believe you were found a little after ten, and it is now almost six, so you have been asleep for some twenty hours.”
Twenty hours? I sat bolt upright, then groaned and had to lie back again.
“You are still unwell, I see,” she said, and I could hear the concern in her voice.
“I shall ask Miss Bingley to have someone fetch Mr. Jones. He has been a regular visitor these past few days while he tends to my sister, Jane, who has been taken ill and is recuperating here until she is well enough to return home with me.”
“No, I’ll be fine, thank you. But I could really do with seeing Mr. Darcy.”
“Mr. Darcy?” I saw her brow crease in surprise. “Are you acquainted with him?”
So Darcy hadn’t told them he knew me? Typical bloody man. “Yes, we are acquainted. I come from…far away…and met him while he was traveling.”
“I am afraid Mr. Darcy is not here at present.”
What? Had I read myself back here but not Darcy? I felt my stomach roll.
“Where is he?”
“I believe the gentlemen are out shooting, but they are due to return imminently.”
I felt a flood of relief—Darcy was back here too!—which was quickly replaced by a flood of rage. How dare Darcy leave me here alone while he went off to kill birds?
“Are you quite all right, Miss…”
“Knight. Zoe Knight.”
“You must be famished, Miss Knight. Dinner will be served shortly, if you have an appetite? Or, if you are still too ill to walk, I am certain the cook may be called upon to send up a light supper while you recuperate.”
“Thanks, but I’m really not hungry. Please, will you tell Darcy I’m awake and need to talk to him urgently.”
“Of course,” she said. “I must get dressed for dinner, but I will return once we retire from the dining room to check on my sister, who is convalescing in the next room, and I shall inquire on you at the same time.”
“Thanks, Elizabeth.”
She stopped, looking startled, and I cursed myself.
“By what means do you know my name?” she asked.
“Eh…Darcy’s mentioned you to me, and I recognized you from his description. He told me you had nice eyes.”
I saw Elizabeth’s brow raise slightly at this; then she gave me a small curtsy and retreated from the room.
I lay where I was, desperately trying to stay calm and think straight while the Fear danced across my chest. Something had clearly gone very wrong when I read Darcy into Pride and Prejudice, but at least he’d made it back into the story, which meant the book was hopefully safe.
Now surely all I had to do was read the same lines again while focusing on why I really, really needed to return to my own world, and with any luck, I’d be able to reverse this mistake and get myself back to Baskerville Books.
I pushed myself up on my elbows and looked around for the copy of Pride and Prejudice I’d been holding, but there was no sign of it.
OK, never mind: I’d read the book enough times, I could recite the words from memory.
I filled my lungs with air, preparing myself for the hideous pain I knew was about to come.
“‘Oh!’ said she. ‘I heard you, but I could not determine immediately how to reply.’”
Were they the right words? Even if it wasn’t perfect, it had to be pretty near. I concentrated all my thoughts on returning to 2026 and Baskerville Books.
“‘You wanted me to say…’” I continued reciting—but oh, bugger, what was next? “Something about ‘the pleasure of despising my taste’ and delighting in ‘overthrowing those schemes,’ blah, blah, blah, ‘premeditated contempt,’ maybe?”
Come on! I willed. I need to get home. Who’s going to feed Mr. Wickham if I’m not there?
How will Mrs. Atallah cope without Darcy or me to talk to?
Who will be Bianca’s chief bridesmaid if I’m not at her wedding?
And Nick… At the thought of him, I remembered the panic in his voice, the way his hand had grasped mine as I started to fall. Oh, Nick, what have I done?
I tried time and again to remember the words, reciting different variations of the lines, but nothing worked.
After an hour or so, I was absolutely exhausted and still very much stuck in the story.
Tired, frustrated tears spilled down my face as I kicked myself for my own stupidity.
Nick had told me to focus on returning Darcy to the story and not allow my thoughts to get distracted, and yet somehow I’d managed to wish myself in here too.
And as much as fourteen-year-old Zoe would have been delighted to have a conversation with Elizabeth Bennet, twenty-eight-year-old Zoe very much wanted to go home.
I heard a knock on the door. “Darcy, is that you?”
It opened and Elizabeth stepped into the room, holding a candle. “No, it is but I, Miss Elizabeth Bennet, returned from dinner.”
I sank back on the pillow in disappointment. “Did you tell him I need to see him?”
“I did, but I am afraid the gentleman was ill disposed to meet your request. But perhaps, if you are feeling a little better, you may be persuaded to join us in the drawing room? My sister is much improved and intends to join the party for a short while.”
My head was still thumping, and I knew my face was red and puffy from all the crying, but if Darcy wasn’t going to come to me, then I’d have to go to him.
“I think I will come down, thank you.”
I pulled back the duvet and gingerly climbed out of bed, my body stiff after lying down for so long.
I began to hobble toward the door, and then I caught sight of myself in the mirror on the dressing table and groaned.
I was still wearing the clothes I’d put on in London this morning—no, yesterday morning, apparently—which were a pair of jeans and my “Books Before Blokes” T-shirt.
There was no way I could go down to a Regency dinner looking like this, and Elizabeth clearly thought the same, as I saw her blink in surprise as she took in my outfit.
“Perhaps you would care to borrow one of my dresses?” she said tactfully.
“That would be great, thank you.”
Fifteen minutes later, having fixed my hair and squeezed into one of Elizabeth’s gowns—it turned out early-nineteenth-century women were considerably more petite than early-twenty-first-century ones—I was ready to go and see Darcy.
Elizabeth had told me where to find them, and I made my way down the grand staircase and through the cavernous entrance hall into the drawing room.
I’d hoped he’d be there already, but when I walked in, I found only Elizabeth sitting with a pretty, pale girl, who must have been Jane, and two haughty-looking women, who were staring at me as if I were something a particularly feral cat had dragged in.
Christ, of all Jane Austen’s characters I didn’t want to face right now, the Bingley sisters were right up there with Fanny Dashwood and the Crawfords.
“Miss Knight,” Elizabeth said, standing up when she saw me come in. “Allow me to introduce you to our hosts, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and my dear sister, Jane.”
“So, you are our newest uninvited guest,” Miss Bingley said coldly. “It appears it is the season for them.”