Chapter Two
Four Days Before the Assembly
Fitzwilliam Darcy woke because someone was pounding on a door.
"Darcy?"
His eyes opened. Bright sunlight streamed across the bed. No snow. Darcy stared at the ceiling. The knock came again, followed by Charles Bingley's unmistakable voice. "Darcy? Are you awake?"
The door opened before he could answer and Bingley entered.
Young Bingley.
Twenty-three years old. His hair was thick and bright, his face completely untouched by age, and the coat he wore was one Darcy vaguely remembered Bingley ruining after falling from a horse during their first autumn at Netherfield.
Darcy stopped breathing.
Bingley's smile disappeared. "Good God, Darcy. You look dreadful."
"Charles?"
"Yes?"
Darcy looked down at his hands. Young hands. No swollen joints. No age spots. The scar across his left knuckle from a hunting accident at forty was gone.
He threw back the covers.
Bingley stepped forward. "Darcy?"
"What year is it?"
Bingley stared.
Darcy gripped the bedpost. "What year is it, Bingley?"
After a long pause, Bingley answered.
Darcy sat down heavily.
Four days.
Four days before the Meryton assembly.
Bingley crouched in front of him. "Should I send for a physician?"
Darcy looked at his young friend. "Netherfield."
"What about it?"
"You have taken Netherfield Park."
Bingley brightened cautiously. "Yes."
"And we leave tomorrow."
"That was the plan."
Darcy covered his face with both hands.
Elizabeth. Longbourn. Twenty years old. Alive.
Bingley touched his shoulder. "Darcy, you are frightening me."
Darcy lowered his hands. "I am well."
"You just asked me what year it is."
"I require coffee."
Bingley stared. "You require a physician."
"Coffee first."
Darcy stood and started toward his dressing room, then stopped. "Bingley."
"Yes?"
Darcy looked back at him. "Do not allow me to insult anyone at the assembly. Particularly Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
There was a long silence.
Finally Bingley asked, "Who in God's name is Elizabeth Bennet?"
Darcy closed his eyes.
That was going to be difficult.
Across Hertfordshire, Elizabeth woke because Lydia was shouting.
"Kitty! Give it back!"
Elizabeth's eyes flew open. She lay still while Kitty's answering protest sounded from somewhere beyond the door, followed by another accusation and a door slammed hard enough to shake the frame.
Elizabeth stared at the familiar canopy above her.
Not Pemberley.
Longbourn.
She sat upright. Her body obeyed immediately. No pain in her hip. No stiffness in her hands. Elizabeth looked down. Her hands were young. There was no wedding ring.
"No."
She threw aside the covers and ran to the mirror.
A twenty-year-old woman stared back. Dark curls. Bright eyes. Smooth skin. Elizabeth lifted trembling fingers to her face.
Downstairs, Lydia shouted, "Mama!"
Elizabeth started laughing. The laughter turned into tears and then back into laughter.
A knock sounded, and Jane entered.
Young Jane. Beautiful Jane. Alive.
"Lizzy?"
Elizabeth crossed the room and threw herself into her sister's arms.
Jane staggered. "Lizzy! Whatever has happened?"
"You."
"Me?"
Elizabeth pulled back and touched Jane's cheek.
Jane frowned. "Are you ill?"
"No."
"Then why are you crying?"
Elizabeth wiped at her face. "I had a dream."
Jane's expression softened. "A bad one?"
Elizabeth shook her head. "No. A very long one."
From downstairs came Mrs. Bennet's voice. "Girls! Do you intend to remain upstairs until luncheon?"
Elizabeth froze. "Mama."
Jane gave her a peculiar look. "Yes. Mama."
Mrs. Bennet was alive. Mr. Bennet was alive. Mary, Kitty, Lydia--everyone.
Jane touched Elizabeth's forehead. "I truly think you may have a fever."
Elizabeth caught her hand. "No. I am home."
At breakfast she discovered that being twenty again was astonishingly uncomfortable.
Lydia borrowed things without asking. Her mother knew where she was at all times.
Mr. Bennet teased when Elizabeth wished he would answer seriously.
Worst of all, Elizabeth possessed the memory of more than five decades without the authority age had eventually brought her.
"Mama," Lydia said, leaning halfway across the breakfast table, "Kitty and I must have new ribbons for the assembly."
Mrs. Bennet did not look up from the marmalade. "You had ribbons from your aunt last week."
"Those are old."
"They are six days old."
"Exactly."
Elizabeth looked at Lydia. Fifteen. Not yet. Nearly. Alive, thoughtless, infuriating Lydia. No Wickham. No Brighton. No cheap wedding ring. No exhausted letters from Newcastle. No years of pretending she had made a romantic choice rather than a disastrous one.
"The blue suits you better than the pink," Elizabeth said.
Everyone stared.
Lydia blinked. "You hate the blue."
"No."
"You said it makes me look sallow."
Elizabeth remembered. She had. Lydia had been fourteen and had cried later when no one watched.
Elizabeth swallowed. "I was wrong."
Silence fell over the table.
Mr. Bennet lowered his newspaper. Mrs. Bennet stared. Even Mary stopped arranging the toast on her plate.
Lydia touched the blue ribbon at her sleeve. "You like it?"
"Very much."
A bright smile spread across Lydia's face. "Then perhaps I shall wear it."
Kitty immediately protested that she had said precisely the same thing yesterday. Within moments the two youngest girls were arguing over whether Kitty had suggested blue, green, or no ribbon at all.
Elizabeth smiled.
Mr. Bennet studied her over the top of his newspaper. "My dear Lizzy, you have apologized twice this morning. Should we prepare for the apocalypse?"
"I am attempting improvement."
His brows rose. "How alarming."
Mrs. Bennet waved a hand toward her husband. "If you are improving, begin by persuading your father to call upon Mr. Bingley."
Elizabeth froze.
Bingley. Netherfield. Darcy. The assembly.
Four days.
She had known the date. Knowing and hearing were different.
Her pulse stumbled.
Jane glanced at her. "Lizzy?"
Elizabeth forced herself to reach for tea while Mrs. Bennet continued talking about four or five thousand a year, a young single man from the north, and Mrs. Long's unreliable information concerning his appearance.
The old exchange unfolded. Mrs. Bennet fretted. Mr. Bennet hid his amusement behind the newspaper.
Once, Elizabeth had delighted in it. Now she saw her mother's anxiety beneath the foolishness. Five daughters. An entail. No sons. No substantial savings. Mrs. Bennet's methods were frequently appalling, but her fear had never been entirely ridiculous.
Elizabeth reached across and touched her mother's hand. "Mama, if Papa has already called upon Mr. Bingley, I am certain he will eventually enjoy telling us."
Mr. Bennet slowly lowered the newspaper.
Mrs. Bennet looked between them. "He has?"
Elizabeth smiled before realizing her mistake. "He always enjoys the reveal."
Mr. Bennet stared. "Always?"
She froze, then corrected lightly, "Frequently."
He continued looking at her before his mouth curved. "My daughter is becoming distressingly perceptive."
Elizabeth lowered her eyes to her tea.
One mistake.
Four days in.
She would need to be careful.