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Elizabeth found herself in a familiar predicament.
It was the twenty-sixth uninterrupted minute of Mr. Collins’s soliloquy on his patroness, the estimable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, that finally broke her resolve. When he at last paused, drawing a great, preparatory breath for his next chapter, Elizabeth saw her chance. Murmuring a hasty excuse, she fled the house, the door banging shut behind her on his open-mouthed surprise.
Her desperate flight for silence and sanity carried her away from the house and deep into the woods bordering Netherfield, where, so consumed with relief, she failed to notice the patch of suspiciously slick moss clinging conveniently to the riverbank.
Her foot shot out from under her with a distinct lack of feminine grace. There was a brief, undignified yelp, a flailing of arms, and then a great, bone-chilling splash as she landed backside-first in the icy water.
The shock of the cold stole her breath. For a moment, she just sat there in the shallow, muddy water, her bonnet askew and her teeth chattering. When she tried to stand, a sharp, familiar pain shot up from her foot.
Oh, for heaven’s sake. It was her ankle.
It was always her ankle. She had never, in all her twenty years, managed to sprain a wrist, or dislocate a shoulder, or even acquire a dramatically bruised knee. No, for Elizabeth, misfortune was stored exclusively in the delicate ligaments of her left ankle, ready to be deployed the moment a situation required a smidgen more romantic peril.
“Not again,” she groaned.
“Miss Bennet?”
The voice was deep, familiar, and so steeped in disapproval that Elizabeth felt she had merely exchanged one insufferable man for another.
As if summoned by the sheer narrative convenience of it all, Mr. Darcy was there. He was on the bank, astride a horse so black and magnificent it looked like it had been bred for the sole purpose of appearing in dramatic rescues. He looked down at her, his expression a blend of shock and concern.
“Are you in need of assistance?” he asked, dismounting.
“I am perfectly fine, sir,” Elizabeth said. She tried to heave herself onto the bank, only for her treacherous ankle to give way, sending another jolt of pain through her leg. She bit back some stronger words.
“You are clearly not fine. You are sitting in a river, and you appear to have sustained an injury.”
“Your powers of observation are truly astonishing, Mr. Darcy.” She finally managed to crawl onto the muddy bank, trying not to imagine how much of a sodden, shivering mess she must appear to him. “I have a much broader definition of ‘perfectly fine.’ I assure you, I require no assistance.”
“Forgive me if I remain unconvinced. Longbourn is a good two miles from here. As you cannot possibly walk in this state, you must take my horse.”
“I thank you for the offer, sir, but I must refuse.”
Mr. Darcy blinked. “Refuse? Miss Bennet, you are soaked to the bone and you have injured” - he glanced down - “your ankle, I presume?”
She gave him a sharp look. “That is of no consequence. I am perfectly capable of walking.”
“You cannot be in earnest.”
“I simply…I dislike riding,” she declared, grasping for a reason that was not entirely ‘I would rather catch my death than be stuck on a horse with you.’
“How then do you propose to return to Longbourn?”
“I will walk,” she said, her chin held high. She pushed herself to her feet, putting as little weight as possible on the offending ankle. “If you will excuse me.”
She made to limp past him, but he moved to place himself in her path.
“Reconsider, I beg you. To walk two miles in this condition is to willfully invite a severe illness,” he insisted, his voice low and infuriatingly reasonable. “You must take my horse. Your objection to riding is easily remedied; I shall lead the animal, and your only task will be to remain seated.”
His offer was perfectly sound, and all the more unwelcome for it.
“And how do you propose to enforce your decree?” She took a challenging step closer, ignoring the stabbing protest from her ankle. “Do you mean to physically throw me over your saddle or perhaps haul me in your arms all the way to Longbourn?”
His nostrils flared. The idea of such a physical imposition, such a crude manhandling, seemed to cause him a kind of spiritual pain. “Indeed I would not, madam,” he said, before taking a rigid step aside, and offering a stiff bow that was somehow deeply disapproving and highly affronted.
Tasting a bitter victory, she hobbled past him.
And with a dignity that was entirely undermined by the squelching sound of her boots and the mud stains on her posterior, Elizabeth turned her back on Mr. Darcy and began to limp her way home.
Not five minutes later, it began to rain.
It was not a gentle mist, but a hard downpour that plastered her hair to her cheeks and turned the path before her into a swamp. The heavens, it seemed, were firmly on Mr. Darcy’s side, conspiring to make her martyrdom as miserable as physically possible.
And then, as if the vindictive downpour were not insult enough, she heard her name echoing through the trees.
“Miss Bennet!” There was a pause, then the call came again, more insistent. “Miss Bennet!”
The voice was unmistakable, and it was gaining on her. Evidently Mr. Darcy’s persistence was as unrelenting as his pride. The humiliation of being found in such a state, soaked, defeated, and so obviously in the wrong, would be unbearable. She could already picture the scene: a smug Mr. Darcy, astride that horse, sensibly (and gallingly!) protected from the elements in a greatcoat, watching her flounder in the mud.
The thought was intolerable.
Ignoring the searing pain in her ankle, Elizabeth picked up her sodden skirts and began to run.
Each step was agony. Each squelch of her water-logged skirts reminded her of her own foolish pride. The wind picked up, cutting through her wet dress like a thousand tiny needles. By the time Longbourn was in sight, her teeth were chattering so violently she feared they might crack, and a strange, feverish heat was beginning behind her eyes.
She burst through the door, past a startled Hill, and dripped her way into the drawing room where her mother and sisters were gathered.
“Dearest Lizzy!” cried Jane, rushing to her side. “You are soaked through! Come by the fire at once. Kitty, dear, would you be so good as to ask Hill to prepare a hot bath and bring some warm blankets?”
“The weather and I had a disagreement,” Elizabeth mumbled, her head swimming.
“What you do to my floors, Lizzy! Your hem is entirely caked in mud…oh, the gown is ruined! It is ruined entirely, there is nothing for it. And you will catch your death!” Mrs. Bennet wailed, her priorities perfectly in order. “Oh, my poor nerves, I cannot bear it.”
Elizabeth meant to assure her family that she was perfectly fine, that a hot bath and a change of clothes were all she required. Instead, the room tilted violently, the edges of her vision went dark…
Her last conscious thought was of a strange disappointment. This was the exact moment Mr. Darcy was supposed to materialize in the doorway and catch her.
Instead, there was only the unceremonious rush of the floorboards to meet her.
Three days later, Elizabeth was officially declared to be no longer at death’s door, but merely lingering unpleasantly in its hallway. A violent fever, a rasping cough, and a truly impressive amount of sneezing had been her punishment for choosing pride over a ride home. She was now permitted to leave her room, pale and thoroughly bored of broth, only to find that a far worse fate awaited her in the drawing room.
Mr. Bingley had come to call, and he had brought Mr. Darcy.
Mrs. Bennet, naturally, saw her opportunity to unsubtly arrange matters to her liking.
“Jane, my love, you are still so pale!” she chirped, “A turn about the garden with Mr. Bingley will bring the color back to your cheeks! The air is so restorative in this part of the country.”
Jane and Bingley, needing no further encouragement, practically floated out of the room on a cloud of mutual adoration. Mrs. Bennet then turned her strategic gaze upon her second daughter.
“And Lizzy! You have been cooped up for an age.”
“My ankle is hurt, Mama,” Elizabeth reminded her.
Mrs. Bennet dismissed this minor inconvenience. “Never you mind that, Lizzy. The fresh air will do you a world of good. Mr. Darcy,” she trilled, leaving no room for refusal, “you will be so good as to accompany her, will you not?”
Elizabeth shot her mother a look of weary exasperation, but Mrs. Bennet, having already achieved her goal, was blissfully immune to such looks.
“There now, it is settled! Off with you both!”
They had scarcely stepped into the garden before Mr. Darcy indicated a stone bench, a silent command for her to be seated. He himself did not sit, but instead stood to one side, his hands clasped firmly behind his back.
As Elizabeth felt the chill of the stone seeping through her dress, she was also keenly aware of the unspoken words hanging in the air between them. You insisted upon your own way, against all sense and reason. Had you but accepted my aid, you would have been spared this entire ordeal.
Mr. Darcy’s lecture was so vivid in her imagination, she felt she could have recited it verbatim. She could bear it no longer.
“You may spare me the lecture, sir.”
Mr. Darcy, who had been intently studying a hedge, turned his head slowly. One eyebrow rose a fraction of an inch.
“I have not said a word,” he replied.
“No, but you are thinking it,” she accused, forging onward. “You are thinking it so loudly I am surprised the birds have not flown away in distress.”
“You can hear my thoughts, Miss Bennet?”
“Yes,” she said, without a trace of hesitation.
A look of disturbance crossed his features. “Then I must beg your pardon for a moment,” he said stiffly. He closed his eyes briefly and muttered, “Lady Catherine. Lady Catherine.”
“Not you too!” cried Elizabeth, “Pray, do not continue. I have heard quite enough on the subject.”
“I must think of my aunt. Otherwise, I fear the rating of our story will require a most significant and immediate elevation.”
Elizabeth could only stare back, utterly bewildered by his nonsensical reply. The man was speaking in riddles, and she was far too tired from her recent illness to attempt to solve them.
She sneezed.
“Bless you,” said Mr. Darcy, handing her a beautifully embroidered handkerchief.
“Oh I could not possibly,” she protested, looking at the fine linen.
“I insist. Think nothing of it; I have many more.” When she still did not take it, he sighed, and simply produced another, equally immaculate handkerchief from his pocket. He did not say a word; the second handkerchief spoke for itself.
Days later, Darcy found himself in the Netherfield library, staring broodingly out the window.
The door flew open with a cheerful bang, and Bingley strode in, his face alight with a near-blinding optimism. “Darcy! There you are! I have been looking all over for you.”
“Bingley.” Privately, Darcy doubted the extensiveness of the search. His movements within Netherfield were confined primarily to this library, the drawing room, and the breakfast parlor. The search could not, therefore, have been particularly arduous.
Bingley plunged ahead with his news. “You will never guess what has happened. We have a surprise visitor! A most wonderful, if unfortunate, development!” he announced. “It is Miss Bennet! She was caught in the most dreadful downpour on her way to visit Caroline this morning. Arrived soaked to the skin and shivering. The apothecary has been sent for, and we have insisted she remain here until she is recovered. Naturally Miss Elizabeth has also come to nurse her sister.”
“What, again?” Darcy said incredulously. The Miss Bennets had been guests at Netherfield under those precise circumstances only a week ago.
“Yes!” said Bingley, “One must begin to think the road from Longbourn is particularly susceptible to downpours.”
Darcy turned back to the window, his gaze lifting to the deceptively innocent blue sky.
“This bloody weather,” he muttered, “What will it do next, snow?”
The days at Netherfield quickly fell into a rhythm. Jane, sequestered upstairs, was making a slow but steady recovery, tended to by a doting Mr. Bingley who seemed to believe that cheerful anecdotes were a valid substitute for medicine, and that propriety could hardly be expected to stand in the way of the plot.
When she was not tending to her sister, Elizabeth divided her time among three prescribed activities.
First, there was the reading. Having once declared a preference for books over cards, she now seemed bound by an unspoken, eternal contract to be seen with a novel in her hand at all times. It was now what was expected of her, and Elizabeth was nothing if not obliging.
Second, there was the needlework. Elizabeth had discovered that any abandoned embroidery could be instantly repurposed as a shield against conversation. She would pick one up with an air of great concentration, though her only real accomplishment was managing to stab herself with the needle on no fewer than seven occasions while trying to look busy.
Third, and most constant, was observing Mr. Darcy write letters.
The man was a veritable industry of correspondence. Every morning, he would install himself at the writing desk by the window and proceed to scratch away with his quill for hours. Elizabeth had begun to suspect the pen was permanently affixed to his fingers.
On the third afternoon, Mr. Darcy finally set down his pen and turned, his gaze falling directly on the book in her hands. “Forgive the interruption, Miss Bennet. Your focus is so complete, it compels one to guess what so intrigues you. The catalogue of possible literature is brief.”
“That is a remarkably confident statement. I must insist you substantiate it with your guess.”
“My estimation is that the customary options are threefold,” he said, a faint, knowing glint in his eye. “It can only be Cowper, surely? Or perhaps Shakespeare, if one is feeling particularly intellectual. Wordsworth, I suppose, if one wishes to be thought modern.”
Elizabeth closed her book of Cowper defiantly.
“Tell me, sir, if my choice of reading were less worthy, would it meet with your approval? Or would it be merely…tolerable?”
A corner of his lips lifted. “That word appears to have become a favorite of yours. By my count, this is the sixth occasion you have employed it today, and always preceded by that glint in your eye.”
“My vocabulary is a reflection of my instruction. One must learn from one’s betters, after all.”
He regarded her for a long, steady moment.
“I could not venture to guess your tutor,” he replied, returning to his letter, “Though I imagine whoever he is, he must now thoroughly lament his choice of words.”
The following afternoon, Elizabeth entered the library at Netherfield.
Mr. Darcy was, naturally, already there.
He sat in a wingback chair by the fire, a heavy volume resting in his hands. She selected a novel from the shelf, settled into the opposite chair, and for a time, a scholarly silence reigned. They were, of course, reading.
This quiet was shattered when a sudden, violent gust of wind rattled the windowpanes and slammed the heavy library door shut with a resounding thud that echoed through the room. The weather was unfailingly reliable like that.
It was only half an hour later, when Elizabeth rose to leave, that the problem became apparent. She pulled the heavy brass handle. Nothing. She pushed. The door was as solid as the wall itself.
“The door appears to be stuck,” she said, jiggling the handle.
Mr. Darcy rose and came over, applying his own considerable strength to the task. The door remained resolutely shut.
“Well, this is a novel predicament,” Elizabeth said glumly.
Mr. Darcy gave a small shrug, an expression of resignation on his face, as if he had come to expect such architectural betrayals from the world.
Elizabeth’s practicality took over. “Can you kick it open?” she suggested.
He looked personally offended, as if she had just suggested that he use his silk waistcoat to polish his boots.
Of course. Such a thing would be beneath him. A gentleman did not engage in acts of brute force against petty structural difficulties.
Elizabeth looked from the stuck door to the very dignified Mr. Darcy, and a dreadful realization dawned on her.
“Oh, good heavens,” she said, “We shall be forced to marry.”
“Perhaps we should not leap to dramatic conclusions. There is no reason this temporary inconvenience needs to become a public spectacle,” he said reasonably.
Elizabeth gave him a look of pity. “Mr. Darcy, do you truly believe that reason has any bearing on what is about to transpire? In approximately thirty seconds, my mother will arrive at that door, accompanied by at least three of the neighborhood’s most notorious gossips. There will be shrieks, followed by an attack of her nerves.”
“Are you compromising me, Miss Bennet?” he said, a curious smile playing on his lips.
“Compromise you?” she cried, “I have no such design, I assure you. You are the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry!”
His smile dropped. “Must you be so emphatic on that point every time?”
She waved away his concern impatiently. “Let us at least attempt to control the narrative. If you would be so good as to remove yourself to the very far wall, we might prevent this from escalating into a catastrophe involving tripping over one another, tearing of garments, or tumbling into a most compromising position just as that door opens.”
Mr. Darcy immediately turned and strode towards a large window.
“You cannot be serious,” Elizabeth said, as he unlatched it and pushed it open, cool air flooding the room. “It must be a thirty-foot drop.”
“I am uncertain what to make of your concern, Miss Bennet.”
“Being forced to become your wife, or being haunted by your ghost after you misjudge a foothold. Pray give me a moment to consider.”
When it became evident she required more than a few seconds of deliberation, he grimaced. “Do not trouble yourself on my account. You may rest assured that my aptitude for this particular skill is well-documented by many,” he said, and swung one leg over the sill.
Before Elizabeth could process that, he began to scale down the wall.
She watched, utterly stunned, as Mr. Darcy, the proudest, most rigidly proper man she had ever met, descended the wall of Netherfield Park with the sure-footedness of a mountain goat. This aptitude for emergency egress was an accomplishment she could never have possibly predicted, and it was disturbingly attractive.
He disappeared from her view. Elizabeth was left alone in the silent library, listening to the ticking of the mantel clock and the fading sounds of a gentleman making his escape.
A minute later, she heard a faint scraping sound from the hallway, followed by a decisive click.
The door swung open.
Mr. Darcy stood on the threshold, looking perfectly composed. The only evidence of his excursion was a single leaf clinging to his shoulder. To her considerable annoyance, she saw that his boots were somehow entirely free of mud.
“The latch had fallen on the outside,” he stated, as if this were the most normal explanation in the world. He then brushed the leaf from his coat.
Elizabeth, needing air and a reprieve from the inexplicable, found herself strolling along the winding paths of the Netherfield grounds. The sun, having apparently forgotten its earlier role in conspiring with Mr. Darcy, shone with deceptive cheer. She was pondering the unusual agency of the weather when a familiar, wheezing sound disturbed the peace.
“Cousin Elizabeth!”
Mr. Collins, red-faced and puffing, emerged from behind a bush. He straightened his jacket, smoothed his greasy hair, and adopted an expression of constipated solemnity. Elizabeth braced herself, mentally preparing for the twenty-seventh minute concerning Rosings’s esteemed mistress.
“I have, as you know, been greatly blessed in the patronage of the estimable Lady Catherine de Bourgh,” he began, predictably. “Her ladyship, in her infinite wisdom and condescension, has often impressed upon me the duty of a clergyman to set a proper example, not least in the matter of matrimony.”
Elizabeth’s brow furrowed. This was new. “Mr. Collins - ”
“It is in this spirit, guided by her ladyship’s most excellent counsel, that I have come to the conclusion that a man of my standing requires a wife. A suitable companion who would be an agreeable addition to the parsonage, and, dare I say, be so fortunate to receive the condescension of Lady Catherine herself.”
A dawning horror stole over Elizabeth. She opened her mouth to speak, but he pressed on, impervious.
“I have, with the most careful and considered evaluation, surveyed the young ladies of Hertfordshire. And thus, cousin, after much contemplation, I have fixed upon you.”
“Mr. Collins, I beg you, do not continue!” Elizabeth exclaimed, taking a step back.
It was as if she had not spoken. “My dear cousin, my reasoning is threefold.”
He went on about his threefold reasons, despite Elizabeth’s multiple attempts to deter him.
“And so, with these unassailable arguments laid before you,” he finally concluded, extending a hand, “I have the very great honor of asking - ”
A voice, deep and resonant, cut through the absurdity.
“Mr. Collins, I fear I must stop you there.”
Elizabeth’s head snapped up. There, emerging from the direction of the house, was Mr. Darcy. He was, naturally, immaculately dressed, his expression one of calm superiority as he took in the scene with a sweeping glance.
“Mr. Darcy!” Mr. Collins stammered, dropping his hand and bowing with a flourish. “A most unexpected pleasure, sir!”
Elizabeth met Mr. Darcy’s eyes, a silent plea passing between them. Do something! Anything!
“Miss Elizabeth Bennet and I are betrothed,” he declared.
Anything but that!
Mr. Collins’s jaw dropped. He looked from Mr. Darcy to Elizabeth, then back again, his small mind visibly struggling to process this sudden development.
“Betrothed?” Mr. Collins finally managed, the word a strangled squeak. “But…your dearest cousin, Miss de Bourgh - ”
Mr. Darcy quelled him with a patented look, and Mr. Collins scurried away.
The moment her cousin was out of earshot, Elizabeth whirled on Mr. Darcy. “Betrothed? Are you mad?”
“It was the first and most effective falsehood that came to mind.”
“Is your imagination so barren? I had credited you with more creativity than that!”
“I did not observe you producing a more compelling argument,” he said, with a faint, almost amused smirk playing on his lips.
“I was on the very point of making my refusal quite plain, sir!”
“The last man in the world declaration, perchance? One must question the precision of the term, given the increasing number of men who qualify.”
She favored him with a look of pure acid.
“I have no doubt of your ultimate success in carrying your point,” he said, in a tone that implied he had many doubts indeed, “And yet, you must concede that my own method proved immediately effective.” He took a deliberate step towards her. “A timely service, was it not? One for which, I believe, a word of gratitude would not be entirely misplaced.”
“You wish for gratitude?” Elizabeth scoffed, though her heart had begun to beat a little faster. He was closer now, close enough for her to note the faint scent of sandalwood. “You have just announced to the world that I am to marry a man I despise!”
He took another step, closing the distance between them further. “Do you despise me, Elizabeth?” His voice was lower now, pitched in an octave that sent a shiver down her spine. “Truly?”
His gaze held a magnetism that seemed to pull her in, making the breath stop in her lungs.
She found herself backing up, one small step, then another. “I find you insufferably proud. And arrogant.”
He was practically upon her now, and her back met the rough bark of a stately oak tree. “If those are my faults in your eyes, then they shall be remedied at once.” His gaze intensified as it dropped to her lips. “And that look tells me I may already be succeeding.”
“You rake.” Her breath hitched. She could not deny that, at this very moment, with the sun dappling through the leaves and his proximity making her head spin, he was entirely, unfairly, attractive.
It made no sense. And yet…
Mr. Darcy chuckled. “I suppose I am acting rather out of character. It happens, by the bye.”
“This moment defies all reason,” she whispered, her voice barely audible.
“Perhaps,” he murmured, leaning closer still. His eyes were dark, almost black, and fixed solely on her. “Or perhaps it is simply inevitable. This farce has gone on long enough. It was meant to be a ficlet.”
And then he lowered his head and kissed her.
Elizabeth awoke with a disturbing sense of having done all this before.
The light slanting through her window at Longbourn seemed familiar. The distant clatter from the kitchens, the scent of the morning air…it was all tinged with an unnerving, cyclical quality.
She dressed and went down to breakfast, feeling a strange sense of unease settle in her bones.
Mr. Collins stood by the sideboard, helping himself to all the offerings. He turned as she entered, his face lighting up with a glee she had come to dread.
“Ah, Cousin Elizabeth. A moment. You will wish to hear this. I was just reflecting upon the simple chimney-piece before me, and it occurred to me that you could have no true conception of architectural elegance without having seen the one at Rosings. Lady Catherine has declared it quite unparalleled, and I feel it only right to share her condescension with you.”
Elizabeth froze. It was not merely the words, but the exact, ponderous cadence with which Mr. Collins delivered them. A chillingly familiar echo resonated in her memory, a feeling too precise to be dismissed as one of her cousin’s usual repetitions on the subject.
It seemed that, in a most convenient fashion designed to erase the preceding nonsense and set the world to rights, time had somehow turned back upon itself.
Well, at least it was better than sudden amnesia. She could only pray that time would move on, and she would not be doomed to repeat the indignity of falling into the river, turning her ankle, and being trapped in a library with Mr. Darcy for eternity.
And then she remembered the kiss.
“Excuse me, Mr. Collins.”
Elizabeth stepped outside.