Beginning, Section II, Next Section

Chapter Four: The Haunting of Mr. Hurst

Posted on 2011-04-06

November 1811

Millard Hurst was not a very observant man. He certainly thought he was, though he couldn't quite account for how people could suddenly disappear from rooms while he was merely resting his eyes a moment, or why walls or doorknobs would suddenly change positions like they did occasionally. Small tables were nearly as mischievous.

In fact, he had nearly run one down just before he had come across Darcy outside the library. When Hurst had first seen him, it had appeared the man was listening at a doorway, but that couldn't be right. The man was as stuffy as a Christmas turkey and as prim as a maiden aunt, and would never stoop to listen at keyholes. He had probably merely dropped something on the floor and was picking it up just as Hurst came around the corner.

All the same, though, there was something about Darcy today -- Hurst couldn't seem to put a finger on what it was -- that didn't quite seem right. It was nothing specific, really. Maybe his waistcoat. Hurst could have sworn it was blue -- not red checked. But perhaps he had changed earlier.

"What say you to a game of billiards?" Hurst said, giving the taller man a hearty slap on the shoulder.

Darcy seemed to flinch, but, with a quick glance at the door to the library, agreed to the proposition. They made their way to the game room, where Hurst racked up the balls as the other man selected a cue stick.

"The usual points, hm?" Hurst asked, and Darcy waved in acknowledgement as he lined up his shot.

"Sister-in-law's been rather snappish lately," Hurst said after the rack was broken and the other man rounded the table to examine the new possibilities. He had wandered over to a small table where was set up a decanter and glasses and poured himself a drink. "Hasn't been causing problems, has she? I keep telling the chit her odds are a long shot, but she just continues to put good money after bad. Getting rather desperate, I'd say."

"I cannot recall any trouble in that quarter," Darcy replied. He chalked his cue stick with stiff, brisk movements. "My attention has been elsewhere."

"I should say it was," Hurst agreed with an appreciative chuckle. "Otherwise I'll admit that I would have been more than happy to speak in Miss Bingley's favor to you. The sooner she's hoisted on someone else the sooner she's off my hands. Bingley's puffed himself about being the head of the family, and what, but let's be honest -- that boy's no more going to know what to do with a spinster sister than he would with a pygmy. And she'll be a problem to any wife he takes, if she doesn't think the girl measures up to her expected worth -- so, little he knows it, but he's got to get rid of her, and soon."

Hurst grunted as Darcy pocketed the third ball in his second shot. "Sure as I don't want you for a brother. I'd be bled dry if we played more frequently." He watched as Darcy put in another three balls. "Since when did you improve so much?"

The other man paused in his aim and looked up at Hurst with a startled expression he quickly concealed. "I've been practicing," he said shortly as he followed through on his shot.

Surprisingly, though, especially considering his previously displayed skill, Darcy's shot went wide, barely kissing the ball he had been aiming at. But Hurst didn't question his luck and immediately set his glass on the side of the table and began aiming his own shot.

"My eye is off tonight," Hurst muttered as he refilled his glass several minutes later. They neither of them had hit anything for a few turns -- it seemed their talents were matched, after all.

"You're doing better than Bingley ever could," Darcy said.

Hurst guffawed. "S'truth."

"Speaking of Bingley, have you heard him mention the situation with the Misses Bennet? How long are they staying?"

"Dashed if I know," Hurst said, bending close to the table to align his shot. "I shouldn't be surprised if more descend upon us tomorrow, the way these country people seem to multiply like rabbits."

"I doubt it's a matter of procreation."

"But I believe I heard Bingley say something to the younger one that she was welcome to dinner," Hurst continued, unhearing. "It had better be more edible than last night. I swear, Bingley must find his cooks in the mudlarks of the Thames, for all their ability to make a good roux."

"Then she will be there for dinner. Probably afterwards, too."

Hurst cast a sideways glance on his companion, who seemed not to notice the attention as he lined up his shot. "She's a little high-born to be a bit of fluff on the side," he said after a moment.

Darcy stiffened and his hand jerked. The cue ball spluttered to the side. He turned to Hurst with an air of affront. "I beg your pardon."

"Oh, come now, Darcy, you can't pretend you fancied her for anything different. She certainly isn't well connected or wealthy enough to be other."

"Mind who you're talking to. And about."

Hurst laughed, unconcerned, and took a swig out of his glass. "Don't poker up now, my dear boy. You've been staring at her like a love-struck puppy for the past few weeks. But we all know high-and-mighty Darcy would never stoop to marry so low, so what else could you be thinking of her for?"

Darcy glared at him for a few moments more and then, turning aside, said coldly, "Your turn, Hurst."

They played in silence for a few minutes before Hurst, feeling a little the wine he had been drinking on a fairly empty stomach, resumed the conversation: "Wouldn't be all that bad a connection for Bingley, though. The older one, I mean. Don't know much about her, other than what Lou and her sister have been blathering away about. Well, and that one utterly boring conversation I had with her at whatever dinner party that was where the mutton was served a la soubise -- who does that? Seemed a decent girl, as tedious and mind-numbingly bland as Bingley is, really. Wouldn't be a horrible match."

"By whose accounting?"

Hurst shrugged. "Bingley's, I suppose. He seems to be top-over-tails for her. And she's rather knees-over-knockers, likewise. Hard not to notice."

Darcy seemed to think about this for a bit. "Have you mentioned this to me before?"

"Why should I have?" Hurst said from where he was refilling his glass. "It's not as if you have anything to say about it. And, besides, if you haven't noticed it's most likely because you've been spending all your time slavering over her younger sister."

Darcy ignored this. "It would be a rather short-lived courtship, wouldn't it? If we're leaving at Christmas, it's hardly likely they'll run into each other after that. Unless Bingley's planning on making this a more permanent residence."

"Not if Lou and the Sister-in-Law have anything to say about it. I swear, they've been grousing about Hertfordshire's banal countryside and savage population since we've arrived. If they ever got the opportunity, they'd be out of here like a pistol shot. And Bingley hasn't the backbone to say boo to a goose, so I doubt he'd be here much longer than they. I, personally, could care less where we stay, as long as there's food and wine and something to shoot that is not my wife."

To that, Hurst thought Darcy might have muttered something like, "No surprise there." But it was spoken primarily to the baize as the other man took his shot, so he couldn't be certain. Darcy was frequently muttering things of that sort beneath his breath around him, in any case, so it hardly signified. "But what was that about Christmas?" Hurst asked.

Darcy looked at him sideways. "Are we not leaving before Christmas?"

Hurst shrugged. "Not so far as anyone's told me. And I'd be surprised if that were, indeed, the arrangement. You know Bingley's not one for planning things out, as such. But I'm sure no one would much mind if you opt to scuttle off to London before everyone else, if you so desired. Well, no one, excepting La Bingley, and we can no doubt endure her complaints for the day it would take for her brother to cave."

The other man said nothing as he pocketed a ball and moved around the table to his next shot. Over the rim of his glass, Hurst studied him, trying to put his finger on what seemed slightly off. It was difficult, with the dimming light, to determine exactly what it might be. He seemed tired, perhaps, tight around the eyes. Hurst had never truly understood what was meant by "looking years older," other than actually being years older, but Darcy tonight certainly looked it. Perhaps there was something bothering him. How would one discreetly inquire?

"You do look awful, old chap. Anything bothering you?"

Perhaps he ought to have said "troubling," rather than "bothering." A little more tactful, that. With the current phrasing hanging between them, Darcy didn't seem receptive to his generous offer to listen. In the eternal optimism of a good French vintage, Hurst thought he'd try again.

"Not that you aren't always so serious, of course. Overly so, I've sometimes thought, but today it seems more than the usual. I can't think Bingley's a very good confidant, so I'd be happy to give counsel, if needed."

Darcy looked at him with an indescribable expression for a moment before shaking his head and lining up his next shot. "I thank you for the offer, Hurst, but I am, at present, content. Should I ever be so desperate, however, I shall without fail seek you out."

His act of Christian charity done for the day, Hurst settled back against a side table with an air of smugness. "So we'll have a bit of sport tomorrow if the weather's fine, shall we?"

"If Bingley so chooses," Darcy said, ceding the table to Hurst.

"So long as Miss Bennet stays abed with her cold, then," Hurst said with a grimace, setting up his shot.

He didn't have a chance to complete it, however, because just as he'd managed to steady his hands and eye, Darcy tripped on the carpet and, reaching out for support, knocked Hurst's glass off the table.

Hurst cursed, dropping his cue stick as he looked down at his jacket and trousers. "Blister it, Darcy," he said, wiping ineffectually at the stains. "This was a new jacket. I can only be grateful, I suppose, that you didn't get my waistcoat, too." He bent down to pick up his cue stick and his glass, which luckily had not broken. "I never thought you'd be so clumsy."

"Er, Hurst?"

Hurst looked up to see his brother-in-law and Darcy standing in the doorway. Bingley had a puzzled expression on his face, but Darcy's lip was curled in contempt. As if he could feel superior! He was the one who had been so lacking in grace.

"Who are you talking to?" Bingley asked.

"Darcy, of course," Hurst said, gesturing towards that man. He peered at him more closely. "When did you change your waistcoat?"

The two men in the doorway exchanged glances, and Bingley sighed. "We're going in to dinner shortly," he said. "We'll make sure it's held up to give you a chance to change."

"So you don't wish to finish the game, then, Darcy?"

Darcy narrowed his eyes for a moment, then shook his head and answered coldly, "Perhaps some other time, Hurst."

The two men departed, and Hurst was left alone to puzzle over what had just happened. But his wine-soaked mind was not completely up to the task, nor his empty stomach, so he left off contemplation for the more effective task of changing for dinner.

Still, it was a strange experience, one that begged explaining. And after the second occurrence the following morning, Hurst began to think there was something odd going on.

It was in the middle of the day, as they were returned from shooting. They had gotten a late start, what with the early morning visit from Mrs. Bennet and her two youngest. Hurst bagged at least five birds, but Darcy and Bingley between them only had two. It was a singularly unprofitable venture.

Upon arriving at the house, Hurst had gone up immediately to his room, while Darcy and Bingley made their way to the study to discuss something. As his valet was rather edgy, rambling on about servants' rumors, it took Hurst longer to change and so by the time he left his room to descend downstairs for tea Darcy was also just leaving his room opposite. The other man adjusted his green jacket slightly and with a nod greeted his fellow houseguest before preceding him down the hallway. They were nearly at the staircase when Hurst realized he was missing a cufflink, so, excusing himself, he turned and retraced his path to his room.

As he neared his room, the door opposite opened and out stepped Darcy, wearing a navy jacket and black breeches. Hurst stopped dead, staring at the apparition. Upon seeing Hurst, Darcy started slightly, then seemed to recover himself and greeted him with a nod. "Going down for tea, Hurst?"

Hurst nodded slowly and continued to stare as the other man, with another nod, thrust his hand into his pocket and went past him down the hall towards the staircase. Hurst gazed blankly at the closed doorway to Darcy's room, his brain still not processing his confusion with any success, then looked over his shoulder in the direction Darcy had gone, but no one was in the hallway. A strange feeling washed over him as he moved to the door of his room and opened it slowly. His valet looked up with surprise from where he was straightening items on the dressing table.

"Mullet, have you ever experienced a moment of uncanny repetition, as if something was happening to you for a second time?"

The valet looked confused at first, but when Hurst explained his experience in the hallway, he nodded sagely. "It's the ghosts, sir."

"Ghosts?" Hurst scoffed. "Fears of the lower classes, Mullet. There are no such things."

"That's not what they're saying downstairs, sir. As I was telling you earlier, there have been quite a few odd things going on. Mr. Darcy spotted in upstairs hallways when he was definitely at dinner, food going missing, things moved about inexplicably. The nurse upstairs what watches your children mentioned how Miss Hurst has been talking non-stop since yesterday about meeting Mr. and Mrs. Darcy."

Hurst frowned. "Darcy isn't married."

"Exactly my point, sir," the valet whispered, looking over his shoulder. "It's the ghosts."

"Why would the ghosts of Darcy's ancestors come to Netherfield?"

"Perhaps they travel everywhere with him."

"If that were the case, I think he might have mentioned it before now," Hurst said. "It's usually something that comes up -- 'Oh, by the by, I think I'm being haunted.'"

The valet at first looked offended at the mockery in his master's voice, but then schooled his features properly. "Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?"

Ignoring the query, Hurst retrieved his cufflink from his case and told his man to set out his black jacket for dinner. He then went downstairs for tea, where Darcy was again wearing a green jacket and checked waistcoat over fawn colored breeches. Hurst's query about whether Darcy owned a navy jacket was met with a positive answer and a curious look. He refrained from asking Darcy about his ancestors.

Nothing else odd happened the rest of the day, but Hurst was nevertheless vigilant. The following morning, having decided during his drinking -- that is, thinking session the night before that he should perhaps do some explorations, Hurst set out to find where this "ghost" who looked a lot like Darcy was located. He wandered through the rooms on each floor, occasionally peering into wardrobes and under beds, but didn't find anything unusual. By the time he got to the topmost floor, he was bored and exhausted, not having done so much exercise since he was at university, so he stopped in the nursery where his children were having a snack.

"I hear you've seen a phantom, my dear," he said to his eldest while pinching a biscuit from the tray.

His daughter, never having seen him ascend to their lofty heights, had been gazing at him with ill-disguised curiosity, but brightened at his words. "Two of them," she said. "And they come to tell us stories at night, too, after Nanny has left."

Nathaniel, who was holding his shortbread protectively in front of his face, nodded in firm corroboration. Their nurse, knitting in the corner, clucked and shook her head.

"And they told you they were Mr. and Mrs. Darcy?" Hurst further enquired.

Miss Hurst nodded. "They're Mr. Darcy's mama and papa."

Hurst considered this. "Did they say why they were here?"

His daughter didn't seem to have an answer for that, but it also didn't seem to bother her at all. "I think they are on holiday."

"On holiday," Hurst echoed with a frown.

"It would be boring to only haunt one place when you are dead," Miss Hurst said solemnly. Nathaniel nodded again, crumbs falling from his chin.

The biscuits and his patience all being gone, Hurst thanked his daughter and gave his son an awkward pat on the head and departed as uninformed as he had come.

All of that running about the house, though, had been quite tiring, and it wasn't long after dinner, as they were all gathered in the drawing room, that Hurst's eyelids began to droop. He tried to keep them open as he sat next to Bingley on the sofa, who was completely ignoring him in favor of attending to Miss Bennet's every need, but the warmth of the fire and the soporific effects of a good meal and a good few glasses of wine were working against him.

He only closed his eyes for a moment, and the next thing he knew Caroline Bingley was banging away on the piano and Darcy and Miss Elizabeth Bennet were glaring at each other across the room. Hurst snorted. He must have missed something in those few seconds, but dashed if he knew what it was. He needed a drink.

That was much better, he decided as he settled back onto the sofa with a nice glass of Madeira. At least he had something to do. All these evenings were so boring when no one wanted to play a hand or two of cards. The country was quite depressing.

That was no doubt why the Misses Bennet retired so early, though one would expect them to be accustomed to the tedium by now. Louisa and Caroline were next, the latter retreating after another failed attempt to attract Darcy's attention. Bingley maintained his spot on the sofa, sighing into the fire, and Darcy seemed inclined to finish his book. Hurst set his empty glass on the table next to him and stood.

"I think," he began, "I think I'll just toddle off to bed now."

Darcy spared him a derisive glance and went back to his book, and Bingley heaved another sigh. His pillow would be more entertaining company, Hurst thought with a snort as he made his way unsteadily to the door. Certainly more intelligent.

The doorknob was a bit tricky, but once that obstacle was out of the way, he found it smooth sailing to the foot of the staircase, where he was presented with another problem: how to get up them without coming back down. But it was no trouble. He'd just hold firmly to the banister, and no doubt it would lead him in the right direction.

A few stumbles later, and Hurst was grateful for the hand under his elbow that helped him maneuver up the rest of the flight. When they were at the top, Hurst turned to his savior, who was looking at him steadily.

"You are able to make it the rest of the way?" Darcy asked.

Hurst laughed, nearly doubling over. "Of course, man," he said, slapping him on the back. "I can handle my drink. You're a good man, though. Good man." He peered at him more closely. "When did you get so old?"

Darcy seemed taken aback by that, and he bowed curtly. "I'll leave you to find your way to your door, then."

Sensing that was an end to that conversation, Hurst had turned to make his way to his room, when a thought teased the blurry edges of his mind. He wrestled with it for a moment before bringing it into focus: Darcy was wearing a brown jacket when he'd left him in the drawing room. Not a blue jacket. He turned back, straightening himself with the help of a wall, only to see the fake Darcy disappear around a corner at the far end of the hallway. This was his chance.

Hurst stumbled after the apparition, making his way unsteadily to the next floor above in its wake, stopping for breath at the top of the staircase. No doubt hearing his less-than-silent pursuer, the other Darcy paused at the door to a room down the hallway, his hand on the doorknob, and looked back, directly at Hurst. They stared at each other for a moment, and then he pushed open the door and entered. Hurst made his way to the room with the help of the wall.

As he put his hand to the doorknob, Hurst thought he could hear voices within. He paused, a slight feeling of unease passing through him, then threw the door open. It hit the wall with a bang and bounced back, startling both him and the room's occupants. When he'd pushed the door fully open again, Hurst stared in surprise at Darcy and Miss Elizabeth Bennet, who were standing quite close in the middle of the room, illuminated by a candle in her hand. Some sort of box-like thing was in Darcy's arms, and Miss Elizabeth had her free hand wrapped around his upper arm.

There was a moment of silence as Hurst gaped at the two people in the center of the room and they gaped back at him. Finally, the false Darcy broke the silence, his voice deep and firm: "You have been drinking, Hurst," he said. "You are seeing things."

And then, with naught but a slight change in the air, they disappeared. Completely. A bare patch of moonlight where they had been, not a whiff of the smoke from the candle Miss Bennet had held. They were gone.

It was at least five minutes before Hurst could retrieve his jaw from the floor and gather his wits together. He had seen a lot of things in his day, had seen people disappear when he closed his eyes, but he hadn't this time. Closed his eyes, that is. Not even blinked. They had simply disappeared. He'd never seen this -- never a spirit. And what a set of them! Had that really been Miss Bennet and Darcy? It looked like them, certainly. But they'd told his daughter that they were Mr. and Mrs. Darcy.

Well, that explained Darcy's interest in Miss Elizabeth Bennet, Hurst thought, pausing as he steadied himself against the wall after tripping slightly over the edge of the hall carpet. If she looked like his mother ... Hurst would never have taken him for a mother's pet, but apparently that was the case.

But, really -- ghosts! He shook his head, making his way again down the stairs to his bedroom. He'd never believed in things like that. But maybe -- well, the ghost said he was seeing things. Maybe it was just a figment of his imagination.

Hurst unsteadily turned the doorknob to his room and entered, pulling off his neck cloth as he went, then paused and stared at his wife, who had sat up in bed, clutching the bedclothes to her neck. Oops. Apparently not his room.

"What, in Heaven's name, do you think you're doing here?" his wife hissed. She took a closer look at him and sniffed derisively. "You've been drinking."

Hurst nodded. "I have," he said. "But I think I'll stop. I think I'm seeing things."

"I think you're seeing yourself to your bedroom," she said, pursing her lips.

Hurst nodded again. It was a good idea. He'd had a long night, as it was. He stumbled over to the connecting door and made his way into his own room, falling fully clothed onto his bed. He'd be glad when they left Netherfield, he thought. All these ghosts and things were exhausting. But at least they were nice enough to help one up the stairs.

Chapter Five: Trapped in Space

Posted on 2011-04-13

November 1811

"How could you have been so completely daft?"

Darcy set down the time machine on a small table and turned to face Elizabeth. She had set down the candle on the desk and moved to the window. There she pulled back the curtain to look out at the steady rain now falling. When she had taken in her fill of the sodden scenery, she turned to face him again. He had still not found an answer to her question, and she placed her hands on her hips as she continued: "You should have realized what would happen. Hurst may have been more inebriated than a . . . well, than my husband, typically, but you would be surprised how uncannily observant drunk people can be just when you don't wish it."

"I apologize," Darcy said with a sigh. "But I could hardly have let him fall backwards and break his neck."

"Perhaps, but it shouldn't have been that hard to outrun him when you realized he was following you. Sots are not particularly noted for their speed."

"But the trouble is that I did not realize he was behind me until I was coming in the door," he replied. "And by then it was too late."

"Completely useless."

"What, me?" Darcy felt offended. "What could I possibly have done? I could hardly be blamed for this."

Elizabeth laughed and paced over to the large desk on one side of the room. "I think you can be blamed for all of it. It was you, if I recall, who came to me in the first place and begged me to help you."

Darcy was now completely confused. "You mean all of this?" He strode quickly over to the desk. "You mean you're blaming me not only for us having to escape Hurst just now, but for the whole mission?"

"Well, has anything you have done actually worked? In fact, if I recall, you managed to cause yourself to insult me, making my antipathy for you worse, you managed to make Jane ill, and you have now given Mr. Hurst a jolly good look at who is supposedly haunting Netherfield."

"You're still blaming me because Jane rode here in the rain? It was hardly my fault."

Elizabeth narrowed her eyes. "Perhaps you would like to blame Jane?"

"It might have happened had I done nothing."

"But it didn't happen until we came here."

"And what, madam, have you done?" Darcy countered. "You brought us to Netherfield, where we have done absolutely nothing of use."

"You agreed to it."

"You told me it would work."

Elizabeth snorted. "So now I have to prognosticate, too?"

"It's what I brought you here for -- to tell me how to fix this. Not to tell Lady Lucas that I was worth ten thousand pounds."

"Well, I would have told her the truth if I'd known only ten thousand wouldn't be enough to offset your abrasive personality."

"But it was like releasing the hounds on me. How could that not have set up my back?"

"It's not my fault you don't know how to be civil. If it weren't for you, we wouldn't have these problems."

"Is that true, madam? As I recall it, you are the reason we are here in the first place -- it was you who married Wickham."

Elizabeth sucked in a sharp breath, paling. "I could hardly forget, Mr. Darcy," she replied as she turned away and walked again to the window.

There was silence as Darcy regretted his words. He wanted to apologize, wanted to erase the expression of rejection he'd seen in her eyes at his words, but the stiff back she'd presented to him and the taut line of her jaw in profile made him hesitate to speak. With the way his luck was going, it was likely an apology would only help him dig his grave even deeper.

But it was his duty to take responsibility. It had been ungentlemanly of him to argue with her, whether it was the truth or not -- and it was ungentlemanly of him to call up, in such a crude way, her past in order to use it against her. Perhaps he truly had learned nothing in all these years. He was here to protect those he loved, not to hurt them.

He opened his mouth to speak, but at that moment the doorknob rattled and the door began to open. Darcy froze, his eyes going to the time machine, but it was halfway across the room now, sitting innocuously on a side table, and Elizabeth was even farther from it. She, too, was frozen, her eyes widening as she stared in horror at the doorway, her hand clutching the draperies.

The voice of Bingley outside in the hallway spurred Darcy to action, and he moved quickly, grabbing Elizabeth by the wrist and pulling her behind the curtain. There wasn't much room, but he pulled the drapes closed and tucked his feet back as much as possible, holding Elizabeth to his chest to let the curtain fall naturally. Hopefully the intruder would be gone shortly and would not notice them.

"I really am sorry," Bingley was saying, his voice muffled by the curtain and the door. From where he stood, Darcy could just barely see through a small tear in the curtain. The person in the doorway, of whom he could only see a hand, had not entered yet, arrested, apparently, by the conversation.

"It isn't your fault, Bingley," came Darcy's voice. "And I am enjoying my stay here, regardless. It has been, for the most part, quite relaxing. I simply need some time to myself right now. So I would appreciate that you not mention where I am to her."

"I think she and Louisa have planned to go for a ride into the village to sneer at the shop offerings, so you should be left alone. Hurst and I will be in the billiards room. I need to lose a few more pounds to him for this month; Louisa has been rather spendthrift lately."

"Enjoy your game," Darcy replied with a smile in his voice.

"I shall. I think this time I'll even go so far as to pop a ball off the table."

"Do try not to break anything."

And with that Darcy came fully into the room, closing the door softly behind him and glancing around before settling himself into a chair with a slight sigh. Darcy could see himself, just barely, by moving his head to the side, and he watched as his younger self stared thoughtfully in the direction of the fireplace. After a moment he arose and the next recognizable sound was that of flint striking steel.

Darcy felt Elizabeth stiffen against him, and he knew why. She must have realized as quickly as he did that if he were lighting a fire it was because he was planning on being here for more than a few minutes. So how could they make their escape?

This, again, was his fault. In his haste to escape Hurst, he'd neglected to check his coordinates, and they'd jumped here, to the library, in the middle of the day -- a location and time easily and not infrequently trafficked. And then, to worsen matters, he'd instigated an argument instead of accepting his culpability with grace. If they had left immediately, using this location as a mere stopping point to collect themselves, they would have been in no danger.

And danger was undoubtedly the correct word for it. A toe or elbow peeking out, a sneeze, or the simple ill luck of Darcy deciding to look out the window -- any of these would lead to their discovery, which would be exceedingly difficult to explain. If it were only Elizabeth, it would not have been so terrible; awkward, yes, but perhaps possible to justify. But Darcy discovering himself hiding behind a curtain, with Elizabeth in his arms? The only possible solution would be to knock himself over the head with the nearest heavy object and hope he woke up thinking it was all a strange dream. Or woke up at all, really.

And then, of course, there was the other danger of their position -- to his sanity. There they stood, hidden behind a curtain, her back pressed against his front, his arm wrapped intimately beneath her breasts, his other hand resting on her shoulder. A heavy lock of her hair had escaped its pins and had fallen across his hand, silken against his skin. The warmth of their bodies was slowly building between them. They had neither of them moved since he had spun her behind the curtain, and there was little chance now to shift position without the danger of some noise or movement that would betray their hiding place. He was aware of every inch of her, of every breath she took, of the tensing of her muscles. And he knew the awareness was reciprocal -- she had no choice.

He closed his eyes and rested the back of his head in frustration against the cool glass of the window behind him, and tried hard to think of something other than how she felt in his arms. But it was like trying to not think about the Prince of Wales: the more you tried, the more you could think of nothing else. The scent of her reminded him of the sight of her sitting in front of the fire at the inn, drying her hair after a bath. The feel of her hair on his skin made him wonder how she would look with it completely down, spread out on a pillow around her. The soft sound of her quickened breath made him--

Maybe he should try not to think about the Prince of Wales. It was infinitely safer than trying not to think about Elizabeth.

The humor of this thought allowed him, for a moment, to think more clearly. There had to be a way out of this, something simple. He took stock of what he had -- a time machine, unfortunately across the room; his younger self, now sitting again in a chair, reading a book; a fire in the fireplace; a curtain; a window -- a window! He took his hand slowly off Elizabeth's shoulder, feeling her turn her head against his chest in curiosity, and carefully touched the window behind him, searching with his fingers. Plate-glass with leaden panes. No latch. Another dead end. He would have cursed if not for the fact that he couldn't make a sound.

Back to his inventory: he had clothing; five gold coins in his pocket; his tablet; a pencil; his signet ring; a woman in his arms; a soft, supple, sweet-smelling woman in his arms. Prince of Wales. Prince of Wales.

No! Elizabeth! She was the answer! Darcy could have smacked his forehead if not for the fact that he couldn't move or make a sound. All Elizabeth had to do was emerge from behind the curtain, pretend she had been sitting in a window seat, and go across the room to fetch the time machine. The younger Darcy would be unlikely to question her words and unlikely to look closely enough to notice a physical difference in the "Miss Bennet" he was presented with -- truly, why should he suspect someone at Netherfield who looked like Elizabeth Bennet to be anyone other than Elizabeth Bennet? She could then go back in time to warn them that Darcy was going to come into the library, and they would be able to escape before they ever got into this predicament. It was foolproof.

Well, almost foolproof. How would he tell Elizabeth the plan? He would have to do it quickly or silently, preferably both, before Darcy came over to investigate any din or movement. There was quite a height difference between them, and thus a large gap between output and input of sound, but maybe, if he bent down slowly and carefully, he might be able to put his mouth to her ear and whisper quietly enough. Good Lord -- he didn't even want to think about how intimate that would feel.

He was just beginning to bend his knees, his body sliding against her in the most incredibly and agonizingly inappropriate way, when he was startled by the sound of the door opening. He straightened quickly, his eye going to the tear in the curtain.

It was a good thing he hadn't gotten so far as to share his plan with Elizabeth, because at that moment Miss Elizabeth Bennet was walking into the library. Two of them appearing in the library at the same time would have been a problem.

He watched as she came further into the room, leaving the door open behind her, and caught sight of Darcy sitting in the chair. There was an awkward moment as the two of them stared at each other, then an even more awkward moment after they exchanged curt greetings. When nothing more was said, Elizabeth deliberately turned away and walked over to the shelves on one side of the room, out of Darcy's field of vision.

"I hope you don't mind my sharing the library with you for a while, Mr. Darcy," came the sound of Elizabeth's voice after a minute or so. "My sister is asleep, and I need some occupation."

"You are welcome," Darcy replied, his eyes remaining firmly on his book.

There was silence again in the library, with only the occasional popping and crackling of the fire and the steady tick of the clock on the mantelpiece. A few minutes later, after the sound of the rustling of pages and snapping of book covers, Elizabeth Bennet again came into view, a book in hand, and took the seat opposite Darcy, close to the fire. From his position behind the curtain, Darcy could only see some of her gown and the back of her shoe, and then her elbow as she leaned against the armrest.

His younger self, however, was perfectly within view. Not that the view provided anything of interest. He didn't move in the least -- not a muscle -- for upwards of five agonizingly long minutes. Darcy couldn't even imagine how many words must have been on that page for it to have taken him this long to read it. At last, he flipped a page in a deliberate manner, shifting his position slightly, and turned his gaze to the top of the new page.

This was hell, Darcy thought, tipping his head back against the cool glass of the window. Perhaps, when they'd made that last jump, they'd accidentally made it to the netherworld.

The only consolation in all of this was that it was raining. That made it highly unlikely anyone would spot them from outside the house: two people of their general description wrapped in an embrace in the library. He could only imagine the rumors. And while it would probably result in their goal of marriage between the two of them, it wasn't the ideal method.

Five minutes went by, then ten. Darcy knew, because he was counting the seconds as the clock ticked on. There was nothing else to do. Occasionally, Elizabeth would move slightly against him, as if shifting her weight to ease her feet, and he wished he could do something for her. But they were trapped.

Finally, at fifteen minutes, Elizabeth turned her head to the side and with one hand reached up and tugged lightly on his lapel. Heeding the summons, Darcy carefully and slowly crouched, sliding against her whilst imagining, to the best of his ability, the portly Prince of Wales, and presented his ear.

"Any ideas?" she whispered, so quietly he guessed more than heard the words. The feel of her breath on his skin, tickling his ear, sent a shiver down his spine, and he closed his eyes in frustration, taking a deep breath to compose himself as he both savored and regretted the feelings coursing through him. "I cannot stand still much longer."

That was a problem. Perhaps even greater than his own -- if she fainted, he'd have to hold her closer to him, so she wouldn't collapse. No, that definitely would not do.

He turned his face to hers, and for a moment their lips were so close that he thought, perhaps hoped, they might touch, and then she obediently turned and offered him her ear. His nose was now buried in her hair, and his intake of breath drew in the smell of lemon verbana and the scent of her. It took him a few seconds to remember what he was going to say.

"No ideas," he said. "Window does not open; machine is on the other side of the room. We are sitting by the fire, reading. Separately," he added, as if it needed to be said.

He thought she might have sworn under her breath, but that might have just been the rain on the glass panes behind him.

"I may be able to sit on the sill, though," he continued. "You could sit on my lap ... in a way."

She nodded her head, and he cautiously felt behind him for the sill, then eased himself onto it. It was awkward -- no more than two or three inches of space, but it was enough of a shelf to take some of the burden off his feet. When he was sure of his seat, he tugged slightly on her arm, and she slowly settled onto what little lap he could offer. She sat nearly sideways now on his legs, and she rested her head against his shoulder as his arm tightened around her waist. No, this was definitely worse. But they couldn't go back now. He could only pray their younger selves would either bore of reading and leave the library or both fall asleep.

But they didn't. Not for the next five minutes, at least. Instead, Darcy and Elizabeth sat there behind the curtain, bathed in the twilight of a stormy day, listening to the steady sound of the rain splashing on the window, a slight draft cooling his back as the heat continued to build between them.

He could think of nothing else but her, and the only thing keeping him from acting on the passion that continued to rage in his breast was the presence of the two people beyond the curtain. But when she turned her head, her face to his, for who knew what reason -- perhaps to tell him something -- and their lips met, there was nothing he could do. He responded without thought, his body taking what was offered.

She tasted exactly how he had imagined: sweet, with a hint of cream. Her lips were soft under his, her breath hiccoughing as her hand clutched at his upper arm. His hand came up to caress her cheek, his fingers in her hair, his other hand firm on her back, pulling her closer. He tilted his head and bit her lower lip gently, and she opened for him. Their tongues met, and he drank in her essence. Her breath caught, and from low in her throat came a moan of desire.

It was like a splash of cold water in the face. He froze at the sound, his eyes opening wide as he realized the enormity of what he'd done. Drawing back sharply, he took in the sight of her, cheeks flushed, lips red, eyes still closed in passion -- just before they opened, her gaze confused.

"Did you hear that?"

At the sound of her voice, Elizabeth's eyes widened, panicked now, and her fingers grasped his arm so tight he flinched. They neither of them moved, frozen in place like hares in front of the fox. Emotions ran swiftly through him -- guilt, panic, fear, apprehension, shame, pain ... but mostly guilt. This was his fault: entirely, without question, his fault.

"It was the wind," his younger self said, and if it had been possible Darcy would have run out and kissed him. But that would have been awkward ... and strangely immoral.

Though not quite as immoral as his actions previous. It was against everything he believed in: honor, duty, his word. He had broken a vow. And he had caused her to do the same. No matter this situation was unprecedented, no matter they were not in their time, no matter no one but them would ever know, no matter they were meant to be together. They were not, they were promised to others, and they had not respected that promise to honor and worship only their spouse.

As the quiet again stretched, Darcy tightened his arm around Elizabeth, his hand pulling her head against his shoulder. He felt on his arm the wetness of her tears, and he leaned his head back against the window, fully ashamed of himself. He had hurt the woman he loved. And he could not even apologize, beg her forgiveness. Not now. He could only hold her and wait with her in silence, and feel the pain he had given.

It seemed an eternity before they heard Elizabeth Bennet excuse herself, saying she should return to her sister. No response came from the other inmate of the room, and a few seconds later could be heard soft footsteps and the sound of the door closing. Within a heartbeat, there came a sigh from the direction of the fireplace and the sound of Darcy rising from his chair. A few minutes later, they heard him curse, a thud, as of a fist hitting wood, and then swift footsteps. The door opened, then closed, and all was silent.

They waited a moment more, but all was still. With reluctance, Darcy released Elizabeth from his embrace and they both stood. The library was empty as they emerged from behind the curtain, and Darcy, with a sigh, went across the room to fetch the time machine. He changed the coordinates, turned, and held out his hand. Her expression serious and inscrutable, Elizabeth looked at him for a moment. Her gaze went between him, the time machine, and his hand. At last, after a wait in which Darcy's muscles felt frozen, she closed the distance between them and took his hand. He flipped the lever and they jumped to their room on the third floor.

"I am sorry," Darcy said when, upon arriving, Elizabeth immediately moved away and went to look out the window. "I can offer no excuse for my actions. I am wholly at fault."

She didn't answer at first, her hand on the curtain as she held it back slightly to look out at the rain. "If you are at fault, Mr. Darcy," she said at last, her voice choked with tears, "then no less am I. I am ashamed of myself, utterly ashamed. My actions ... such wantonness ... I am no better than a common whore."

He sucked in a breath. "Elizabeth--" he began, shocked.

"No, Mr. Darcy. Please -- this is not easy. I have compromised my marriage; I have compromised my soul. And, perhaps worse than that, I compromised us -- it was my fault that we were nearly discovered." She paused to take in a shuddering breath. "I ask that you take me back to Somers Town. I cannot go on with this. I deserve my future."

With unsteady legs, Darcy went to sit on a cloth-covered chair. He held his head in his hands as her words sunk into his very soul. He had failed her. "I cannot," he choked out, his voice hoarse and foreign. "I cannot take you back."

She did not respond, and when he looked up at her, he saw the naked expression on her face, the pain and anguish he had no doubt was reflected on his own. "You must," she said. "I cannot do this anymore."

"And what of me?" he asked. "I need you to help me do this."

She shook her head. "I should not be here. This was wrong."

"Yes, it was wrong. It was entirely wrong of me to have kissed you. But I need you here with me. I cannot do this alone," he said, unashamed to beg.

A tear slipped down her cheek, and he got up and went to her, enfolding her in his arms. She resisted at first, but then relaxed as he tightened his hold. "Elizabeth, I know that we were wrong -- entirely wrong to have done what we did. I admit it, and I know that you feel the same way. But we cannot go back now. We must accept our failure and move on."

"We could go back," Elizabeth said, her voice muffled by his coat. "We could go back to the library, or even further--"

"Do you really wish to?" Darcy asked. "Because you are right -- we could. We could change it. I think we could erase this future. But I don't want to." He stepped back, his hands going to her upper arms as he looked into her eyes. "I know what we did was wrong, Elizabeth, and God knows that someday I will have to pay for my sins, but if we fail in this, if we truly fail and must go back to our separate lives, I would give anything to have that one memory." He lifted his hand to her cheek, and she leaned into the palm of his hand. "I don't want to give that up, and I don't want to give up on our mission. I know that we can conquer this. We were meant to be together."

Another tear fell from her eye, and she quickly swiped it away with the back of her hand. He pulled out his handkerchief and carefully, gently dried her cheeks, until she stilled his hand with her own. She turned it, caressing his fingers with her own, then raised his hand to her lips and laid a soft kiss on his knuckles. "You are right," she said softly, raising her chin and looking into his eyes. "I don't want to give this up, either."

They remained that way for some time, the silence of the room enveloping them. Gazing down into the eyes of the woman he loved, Darcy wouldn't have moved for the world. But the thought slowly intruded upon his awareness that he had to. They had to change the past.

"I've been thinking, Elizabeth," he said now, dropping a kiss on the top of her head and then leading her to a chair, "and I'm wondering if you haven't been right. We need to go further into the future to find out what happens before we can come back and fix it. We've been trying to anticipate, and it's simply not working. Since we cannot know anything that we haven't experienced yet, we have to pass the point of experience; we cannot do this blindly. We need to know. We need to take the chance that we will be able to come back. I don't want to go too far forward, because I think we'll lose sight of the smaller details we might be able to alter for greater effect, but I think we do need to make those jumps."

Elizabeth looked down, gathering her thoughts. "You may be right," she finally said. "But how far?"

He ran a hand through his hair and sat down in another chair, resting his elbows on his knees. "I don't know. A week? Two weeks?"

"So little time?" she said, her forehead wrinkled.

"More, do you think?"

She shook her head. "No. You're right. Too much time and we'll forget the little details -- where we were at certain times, who was with us, even what we were wearing or at what time things happened. Our fresh memories might be diluted by sheer quantity."

"Two weeks, then," Darcy said, already moving to the time machine and setting the coordinates. "And if we then need to jump forward more, or back, we will be able to go from there."

Within minutes of the decision being made, they had collected their things and had jumped the fortnight. Nothing had changed in the room, other than an increase in the thin film of dust covering everything in the room. Darcy set down his valise and pulled out his tablet, flipping to a new page.

"What do you remember?" he asked.

Elizabeth laughed. "I hate when you ask that," she said. "It's like asking someone to describe themselves -- where do I start?"

He smiled. "Very well, when did you leave Netherfield?"

She closed her eyes, trying to recall. "The day after you and I were in the library," she said. "I had sent a note to my mother, requesting the carriage, but she said it couldn't be sent yet. So Mr. Bingley offered use of his carriage, but not until the following day."

After thinking a bit more, she laughed. "Oh! And the day after we came home, we had a visitor. I had completely forgotten about him!"

Darcy looked up from his notes, a pang of jealousy shooting through him. "Him?" he echoed.

Elizabeth laughed again, her eyes sparkling at him. "Indeed. Mr. William Collins, our cousin. He was the heir to Longbourn, but my father and his had long been at odds, so there had not been any real communication between us. Until one day, that is, my father got a letter from him professing interest in healing the breach and extending the olive branch and other such rot. He was a parson, you see."

"Ah," Darcy said, not really seeing at all.

"So he had come for a fortnight's stay, and during this time he had apparently fallen passionately in love with me. Or so he said. Apparently I was a useful and practical sort, he thought, and fit his ideas of an ideal wife. I found out later from my mother, of course, that he had actually been interested in Jane first, but because Mr. Bingley had been interested in her first, Mr. Collins had to switch his interest to me. She never forgave me for refusing him."

"You refused him?" Darcy echoed. "A proposal of marriage, you mean? And you married Wickham instead?"

Elizabeth grimaced. "Yes, I suppose in hindsight you might say it wasn't the best pair of decisions on my part, but if you'd ever met Mr. Collins you would have understood."

Darcy frowned. "The name does sound familiar. He was a parson?"

"Yes -- to a Lady Catherine de Bourgh, if I remember correctly." She giggled. "He was always expounding upon how condescending she was and about how massive her chimney pieces were. If he weren't a reverend, I probably would have wondered if he weren't talking about something else entirely."

Darcy felt his ears turn hot. "Lady Catherine," he choked out, "is my aunt."

"Oh!" Her hand flew to her mouth in embarrassment. "I'm so sorry. That was entirely uncalled for of me."

There was an awkward silence before they both started to laugh. At last, Darcy wiped the tears from his eyes and said, "I now recall he seemed very, very ingratiating the one time I met him. That was my last visit to my aunt, as I married Victoria the following year. My aunt never forgave me for that. She had wanted me to marry her daughter," he added when Elizabeth lifted an eyebrow in silent question.

She smiled. "She and my mother could commiserate, then. And doubtless share the triumph over our poor choices later. But there was not a chance I would have married Mr. Collins. He was simply... there's no word for it. Not right, I suppose. For me, in any case. So when he proposed to me on the last day of his stay here --" She furrowed her brow and counted off her fingers. "That would have been today, then. This morning."

Her scowl deepened, and she put a hand to her forehead. "It's so hard to remember -- oh, good God."

Darcy sat forward, concerned as she looked up at him, her eyes widened, and covered her mouth in horror. "What is it?"

"He didn't ask me today. He asked me last week. And when I rejected him -- he is engaged to Charlotte," she breathed. When he frowned, she elaborated: "Charlotte Lucas. Possibly my closest friend, beyond Jane. Her father was Sir William Lucas."

"Of course, I recall him -- a very friendly man. But what has that to do with anything? Good for her, I should think."

She shook her head and stood, pacing to the fireplace in an agitated manner. "You don't understand. That didn't happen before. Mr. Collins proposed to me earlier this time than he was supposed to -- he proposed the day after the ball--" Her surprised gaze flew to his. "The ball!"

"I remember the ball," Darcy said slowly, his gaze thoughtful as he looked down at his notes. "Here at Netherfield. Bingley had decided to hold it. He had promised your sisters, despite his own sister's protests. I understood their point of view, honestly -- they were the ones to do the work, after all." He looked up at her sharply. "We danced together."

She nodded unevenly, looking anywhere but at him. "I met Wickham."

He scowled. "Is that where you met him? Why didn't I see him?"

She shook her head. "I didn't meet him at the ball. He wasn't there. He'd had business in London and couldn't attend."

"Pure chance, then, that Wickham and I didn't come across each other until the day before I returned to London for Christmas, when we ran into each other in that shop in Meryton."

"Possibly," she said, frowning slightly in thought. "It did seem strange that he did not attend the ball. I had met him nearly a week before the ball; two days after Jane and I returned from Netherfield. We were on a walk to Meryton. He'd joined the regiment here."

Darcy nodded, his brow creased. "And now I do recall that I didn't meet him this time. Before we made all of these changes, I met him, but not this time. I don't believe I was even aware he was here."

"But he knew you were here," Elizabeth said, "because he told me your story a few days after the ball, after you'd--" She gasped, looking at him in shock. "After you'd left."

Before he could even take in her words, Elizabeth had dashed from the room. As soon as he'd gathered his wits, a sickening sensation forming in his stomach, he followed, running down the hall after her. She ran down to the second floor, throwing open doors as she went. When he finally caught up with her, she was standing in the open doorway to the room Bingley had been in. The bed, the chairs, everything was draped in ghostly white Holland cloths.

"They're gone," she said in a hollow voice, her face pale. She turned to Darcy, who had stopped a few feet away. "Mr. Bingley has left Netherfield. What are we going to do now?"

Chapter Six: Lost in Time

Posted on 2011-04-20

December 1811

"This is impossible," Darcy said, tossing another crumpled-up piece of paper to the floor, where it rolled to a stop next to its predecessor. The floor around the desk was littered with discarded plans for changing the current timeline.

Elizabeth glanced up from her book. They were sitting together in the library at Netherfield, where they had taken up residence since the current tenant had decamped several weeks ago. It was nearly empty, except for the old man and wife who stood caretaker and a few maids who came several times a week during the day. In their absence, Darcy and Elizabeth were now using it as a base camp for their efforts, going backwards and forwards in time in their efforts to alter the past and occasionally pick up some food to eat. They had been as far forward as mid-January a few times, and as far back as early November, without much success. They had tried to alter Bingley's need to travel to London. They had tried to influence Darcy's opinion of the Bennets by arranging more meetings. They had even gone so far as to whisper suggestions for being nice to the Bennets into Miss Bingley's ear as she slept. All had been for naught.

At present, they were eating cold sandwiches and attempting to brainstorm new ideas. Elizabeth had given up nearly half an hour ago and was now sprawled in a chair by the fire, her feet comfortably positioned on a footstool and a blanket and book across her lap. She smiled, her nose wrinkling. "You've just come to that conclusion now?"

He glanced over at her in annoyance. "Some of us are not quite as willing as you to call it a lost cause."

"Pure stubbornness."

"Persistence, I should say," he replied. "Have you not read the parable about the widow and the judge?"

She snorted. "And have you not heard that the only thing you'll get from of bashing your head against the broad side of a brick wall is an aching head?"

"Perhaps the bricks have been weathered for hundreds of years."

"You are still not likely to get your head through -- no matter how hard it is," she replied, taking her feet off the stool and sitting forward. "You are simply going to have to admit that we cannot change things from this end. We've spent five full days on this, and the best we have done is inspired Wickham to tell me the story earlier by having the two of you spot each other in Meryton when you and Bingley were coming through on your way to Longbourn. That is hardly progress; I think we've actually gone backwards. The dance we shared at the Netherfield Ball was actually mildly pleasant before this. Now it is a disaster."

Darcy grumbled to himself and went back to his tablet. But after five minutes of staring at it without a single new idea, he looked up at Elizabeth again. "So, then, what do you suggest? With my younger self gone from Hertfordshire, it's not likely we might simply meet each other in a field somewhere."

"I don't believe we did that before you left Hertfordshire," she pointed out.

"You know my meaning," he said. "We cannot forward our alliance if we're not even in the same county. Do you think you might come to London?"

She laughed. "I've already sent Jane there. And it would hardly be any more likely we'd run into each other in London. In a city of hundreds of thousands of people?"

"You could call on Miss Bingley and Mrs. Hurst," he suggested.

That made her laugh even harder. "I am certain they would simply adore that. We're such intimate friends. But what good would come of it? It's not as if you would be staying with the Hursts, as well."

He looked offended. "I have my own house in town."

"Precisely. So if I called at the Hursts', you would be -- where? At your home. Completely unaware of my presence in the same city as you, even should you wish to pursue the acquaintance. And what is more, you would remain completely unaware, as I highly doubt Miss Bingley would be so kind as to mention my visit to you, unless for the purpose of denigrating me further. But, honestly, I do not think she would take even that risk."

"Then we are back to the beginning," Darcy said. "With nothing."

Elizabeth sighed and set aside her book. "Perhaps. And perhaps we're simply not seeing something before our eyes."

But what? That was the question. Together, they created and pored over a list of their assets, naming off everything they could think of that might be of some advantage. Half an hour later, they were still naming off people and things, when suddenly Elizabeth sat up from where she had been laying on the sofa. "Charlotte!" she cried.

Darcy looked up from where he had been throwing another log on the fire. "What about her?"

"I had completely forgotten!" she said, excitedly running over to the desk to grab another list. She sorted through the papers scattered about and then held one up in triumph. "Your aunt is Lady Catherine de Bourgh, is she not?"

He confirmed that she was. "But what of it?"

"You visit her every year, do you not?"

"I do," he said, walking over to the desk. "One of my cousins and I generally go in the spring. We stay for as little a time as is polite, then leave just as quickly. My aunt has been trying to pair me with her daughter for years."

"That's it, then!" she said. "That's where we'll meet!"

"At Rosings?" Darcy said. "Why would my aunt invite you to her home?"

"Not your aunt," Elizabeth said in excitement. "Mrs. Collins. Charlotte!"

Darcy began to see what she meant. "You are intending, then, that we might have the new Mrs. Collins invite you to Kent to visit with her at the same time as I am there?"

Elizabeth shook her head. "She already has. That is, she will."

"Invite you? When is this? And why was it not on our list of assets?"

"I didn't recall it until now," she said. "It happens just before she marries -- the day before, if I recall. The last time we jumped into January, it must have happened in the meantime, and I simply didn't think to recall the memory until now. She said -- or will say, that is, that she hopes I will visit her at Hunsford in the spring."

Darcy frowned. "But for how long? Will it be long enough for us to meet repeatedly? I cannot see us changing so much as for me to propose simply upon seeing you again. Yes, I will admit you were in my thoughts often after I left here, but I am not leaping to beg for your hand. There are ... objections."

She raised one brow in question, and he sighed but refused to elaborate. His younger self's thoughts were not such as she would be likely to appreciate. Nor would his current thoughts, for that matter. There were several objections that still held some weight with him. Her family, for one. During their time in Hertfordshire, he had been hoping that his memory of them had been faulty, but he soon found it to be the opposite. They were even more crude, low class, and abhorrently ill-behaved than he recalled. True, after he and Elizabeth married he had no doubt they would see little or nothing of her family -- Wickham had said they had lived happily, and that was unlikely to be true if he spent any time with the Bennets. Still, even a connection held at a distance was yet a connection, and as such it would reflect badly on him and their children. A reasonable misgiving, but not one that would find favor with Elizabeth.

As it was, it was clear she could guess some of the substance of his thoughts: she pursed her lips, sitting down in the chair behind the desk. "You are a snob, Mr. Darcy."

"Perhaps," he said softly. "But I am already more than halfway in love with you. I think I need only a push to overcome my doubts. If I see more of your worth -- and in Kent, you would be separated from these objections, perhaps making it more likely I should forget them..."

She scowled. "But is that right?" She looked up at him, her eyes narrowed. "You would still have those objections. How could they fail to rear themselves later in our marriage, causing perhaps more pain? Would it be right to regret our union?"

Darcy sat on the edge of the desk and leaned over, his hand coming to cup her cheek and tilt her chin gently upwards so that she looked into his eyes. "I would never regret our union," he said firmly. "I always protect what is mine."

Rather than be comforted by this, Elizabeth pushed his hand away and stood. She walked to the fireplace, wringing her hands in agitation. At last, she turned to him and said, "So you will come to Kent in March?"

"March?" he echoed. "We never come so early. Generally it is late April or May."

She knitted her brows. "But I am only to stay a month," she said. "We shall miss each other."

"Not," Darcy said with new determination, "if I know you're there."

Once in the study, Darcy quickly took note of the coordinates and fetched Elizabeth from where she was waiting at Netherfield. It was quick work, and when they arrived back in his study in London, he immediately set to sorting through the letters on his desk while Elizabeth went to put their borrowed kettle on the fire.

"It has to be here," Darcy said, paging through the small stack of papers. "I recall it arriving this morning."

Elizabeth, who had then begun roaming the study, was looking in curiosity at the paintings on the wall. "Is this your mother?" she asked, peering intently at a small portrait of a woman in the garb of the past century. "She's very beautiful."

Darcy glanced up. "No -- that is my grandmother," he said. "I am sorry, Elizabeth, but I do not have time to give a tour. I need to find that letter."

"Are you sure you did not already read it?" she asked. "Perhaps it came before you left for your club."

He shook his head. "No. It will be waiting when I return from White's a few hours from now. I am sure of it."

Just then, there was a knock at the door. Darcy quickly waved Elizabeth behind the window curtain, and when it had settled he bid whoever was at the door to enter. It was Graves, with the post.

"Thank Heavens," Darcy said when his butler had gone again. Elizabeth had come out from behind the curtain and was now beside him at the desk. He pulled out the letter. "Here it is. From my aunt."

"Open it," Elizabeth urged, bringing over the kettle of water, now boiling.

Darcy carefully set to warming the wax seal over the steam, testing it frequently to avoid over-wetting the envelope. At last, the wax softened and gave and he was able to open the letter carefully. He unfolded it and scanned it, then pushed it across the desk to Elizabeth, who had sat down in the chair and pulled out a pen and inkbottle.

"Do your best to imitate my aunt's writing," he said, "but I probably will not look too closely. A simple sentence mentioning your presence should suffice."

Elizabeth arched a brow as she read through the letter. "Does your aunt always write so much about her daughter? Her effusions make it sound as if she's offering you the purchase of a horse."

"Essentially, it's the same process," he said. "But if it were at all in my aunt's power, I wouldn't have a choice in the deal at all."

It was quick work to add information into the letter, as there was already a mention of Mrs. Collins and Lady Catherine's displeasure with the young woman's housekeeping skills. Elizabeth carefully squeezed in another line about how with three more houseguests -- the two Lucases and an impertinent Miss Elizabeth Bennet -- it would only become worse.

"Impertinent?" Darcy echoed as he scanned the finish product.

Elizabeth smiled mischievously, sanding the letter and handing it to him with a flourish. "I cannot imagine any better description."

Darcy laughed and pulled his sealing wax from his desk as Elizabeth brought over a lit candle. He was in the middle of applying a small layer of wax to affix the old seal when a knock was heard at the door. Darcy quickly pressed the letter closed as Elizabeth dashed again behind the curtain.

When bid, Graves entered bearing a silver tray. "I thought I asked not to be disturbed," Darcy said as he took the card.

"I'm sorry, sir, but the gentleman was most insistent."

Darcy paled as he read the name on the card, a flood of memories rushing through him -- that last conversation before Bingley left Netherfield for London; Caroline Bingley's comments about Jane Bennet's unsuitability and insistence that they follow him; Darcy's encounter with Bingley at his club. All of those conversations had been about Jane Bennet. And none of them had ended well.

He had known some of this before, but it hadn't seemed relevant then. It had nothing to do with him and Elizabeth and their attempts to build their relationship. And he knew how protective Elizabeth was of her sister and how ill such a conversation would sit with her. She had been slightly edgy with him all day -- in fact, ever since that morning at Netherfield when they'd realized the Bingley party had left. He couldn't let Elizabeth hear whatever Bingley had to say. It would no doubt only aggravate their situation.

He had no doubt that she believed her sister wronged. Bingley had paid Miss Bennet attentions while they were in Hertfordshire -- even Hurst had noticed. But from what he could recall, Bingley's removal from the area had been for the best. He had married some upper-class young woman with the approval of his sisters; and when Darcy'd been searching for information on Elizabeth at the inn at Meryton, the innkeeper had said Miss Bennet had married eventually, too. Their futures were assured. But for all Darcy knew, Elizabeth might still think Bingley the best match for her sister -- and he wasn't prepared to argue it. They had other battles to wage.

At the moment, though, the question was whether he should see Bingley. Clearly, if he were insisting on being seen, Bingley was aware he was at home. How, he didn't know. But if he turned him away, it might adversely affect their relationship. And with his younger self unaware of this meeting, that might cause even more significant problems.

"Tell him I shall see him in the drawing room," Darcy said. Graves bowed and retreated. When the door closed behind him, Elizabeth came out from behind the curtain.

"What was that about?" Elizabeth asked. "Who is here?"

Darcy waved the questions away. "Just a friend," he said, putting Bingley's card in his pocket and edging toward the door. "But I cannot offend him by not seeing him. I will try to make it brief."

"I should hope so," she said. "When are you expected to return home?"

He checked the clock on the mantel, comparing it with his own pocket watch. "I believe it was nearing two. We should have some time yet."

Darcy wished he had more time before facing his old friend. The short walk between the study and the drawing room felt much as the walk to the gallows must: you knew what you would face when you got there, but what happened afterward was the great unknown. He opened the door hesitantly.

Bingley looked up from where he sat on the sofa. He looked pale; he looked drawn; he looked anything but his usual self. He looked pathetic.

Not that Bingley wasn't at other times pathetic. Frankly, he often was. But then it was more of a case of pathetic in his gullibility, pathetic in his wide-eyed naïveté, pathetic in his eagerness to please. This, on the other hand, was the true pathos of empathy.

If he had been called on to give a testimony to the state Bingley was in, Darcy would have found no better words than those of the poets whom he was usually more likely to scorn than cite. Bingley was pale with love. He looked as if he had been dining on his heart, rather than his usual fare. And it wasn't sitting well with him, either.

"How are you, Bingley?"

It was a silly question -- but, then, so were most questions required by politeness. Bingley did not seem to think so, for he replied to it seriously, giving it as much attention as he always did, though in less enthusiastic a manner.

"Not well, Darcy. I'm not feeling my usual self," he said, hanging his head again. He seemed to rouse himself, though, to ask: "How are you?"

"I'm doing well," Darcy replied.

"And Miss Darcy?"

"Very well. She's ... erm ... not here at the moment."

"Ah," Bingley said, lapsing into silence.

Darcy would have eaten his hat before asking after Miss Bingley, so he instead asked if Bingley would like anything to drink. After he filled two glasses from the sideboard and handed the younger man a small glass of wine, he took a sip of his own drink and asked, "What did you wish to speak with me about? I assume you did not badger your way past Graves to ask me how fared my sister."

This flustered Bingley. "I did not mean to badger him, Darcy, I truly didn't," he said. "I just ... I heard you'd come back, and I need to talk with you again."

Darcy sat down carefully in the chair opposite. "About what?"

A spot of color appeared in each cheek. "About Miss Bennet."

Blast. Exactly as he'd thought. Darcy forced himself to stay seated, and even leant back in the chair slightly to affect a nonchalant attitude. He swirled the wine in his glass, tilting it to study the legs, before finally saying, "What of her?"

"I just ... I need to know..." Bingley grew frustrated with his inability to speak and, setting his untouched glass on the small table next to him, stood and began to pace. "I know what you'd said to me earlier. I know it's a ridiculous hope, but I just cannot stop thinking about her, and I was wondering ... could you ... have been wrong? About her. About how she feels about me."

"What did I tell you?" Darcy asked. To be honest, he couldn't recall at all what he had said; it was rather a long time ago. And in a case like this it is essential to be exact.

Bingley paused at the fireplace, scuffing at the flagstones with the toe of his boot. His expression and posture made him seem younger than he really was. "You said I should be careful that she felt the same way about me that I felt about her," he said at last, his voice quiet. "That you hadn't seen any particular signs of genuine affection in her during the times we were together. That it was possible I was magnifying her feelings through the lens of my own ardor."

That certainly sounded like something Darcy might say.

"And I know that Caroline and Louisa are against the match, as well, but those reasons -- and I know you said the same -- but those reasons are as nothing to me, if she really cared for me. I would never wish to force her to accept me, through some sense of duty to her family; I care too much about her feelings to put her in such a position. But I would return to Netherfield in a second if I thought--" He paused here and looked over his shoulder at his friend. "I just need to know -- do you think she does not?"

Darcy sighed and set his glass aside. This was going to take all the tact in his power. "Now, Bingley, I cannot say any more than I have."

"But why not?" the younger man asked, his voice desperate. "Surely you, as an uninterested party, should have been able to see what I might not. And you are so clever always, the way you watch everyone. You should know her heart."

"Know her heart?" Darcy echoed. "That is surely more than anyone can do."

"Perhaps not her heart, but did you see any signs of love in her, when we were together, then? At the Netherfield Ball, maybe?"

Darcy stood and paced to the window, trying to rein in his agitation at such a question. He couldn't interfere. Not only because his memories of the event were so far removed, but also because it would not be right. Not only from the aspect of changing the past in a way that should seem inconsistent to others in the know, namely, his younger self, but also from the aspect of fairness. This was his younger self's concern; he should not, must not meddle. He must leave it to fate; whatever Elizabeth's love of her sister and interest in her placement, she should understand that. They were here to change their own past, not others'. They had no right to do anything else.

"I will say nothing more than what I have," Darcy said, turning from his view of the street. "It is now you who must decide what you believe. Do you think she loves you?"

The hope that had been brimming in the younger man's eyes died, and his face and shoulders fell. He came to sit back down in the chair he had abandoned. "I don't know," he said. "I suppose not. I was simply rather wishing..." He left the thought unfinished, as if it would have been too cruel to give voice to his hopes.

Darcy laid a hand on his old friend's shoulder, squeezing it lightly. "Go home, Bingley," he said softly. "Go back to your rooms and get some rest. You look done in."

Bingley nodded slowly. "I think I will," he said. "I was thinking, even ... I thought it might be a good idea to spend a while in Scarborough. With you being gone so much, staying at the Albany is simply too much. I need company, and my aunt will no doubt provide it, as grumpy as she often is."

"A change of scenery will no doubt also help."

"Indeed," Bingley said, smiling weakly. Darcy patted him again on the shoulder, and the two went out into the hallway, where the younger man collected his hat and gloves from the butler. "So I shall not see you for a while, then?"

"I presume not," Darcy said. "But if you do decide you are for Scarborough, be certain to call here before you leave and let me know."

Bingley nodded, the two shook hands, and he departed. Darcy watched as the door was closed behind him, and then turned to make his way back to the library. He found Elizabeth there, flipping through one of his books. She slipped it back into its place as he entered.

"Who was that?" she asked when the door had closed fully. "I heard your voices in the hall."

"A friend, madam," he replied, going to the desk to check the letter. He examined it carefully, testing the seal lightly, and then slipped it into the post, which he left in the center of the desk, as his butler did generally when he was out. Yes, it would serve.

When he looked up, Elizabeth was still standing in the same manner, her eyes narrowed as she watched his movements. "Then we are done here?" she asked.

They were. He fetched the time machine and set its coordinates, and together they returned to Netherfield, where he left her to return to London for his hat, coat, and gloves. When he came back to their rooms on the third storey of the Hertfordshire manor a few minutes later, she had already re-packed her valise and was ready for him.

"To Kent, then?" she said.

Darcy nodded as he collected his own things together and tidied the room. "Indeed," he said. "I know of a small, abandoned cottage we can use on my aunt's estate. We can hire a carriage in London to get us most of the way there."

"Perhaps we should have bought a carriage, with all the traveling we have had to do," she said. "It certainly would have been easier to make our way to places without all of this skulking about and jumping into alleyways."

Darcy grimaced. "Perhaps, but where would we keep it? And could we be sure the horses would still be alive when we jumped a few months into the future to collect them?"

That surprised a laugh out of Elizabeth. "Poor things. I didn't even think of that. It would be quite shocking were we not to feed them for so long."

He closed his valise and hefted it in one hand. "As well, I think our baggage is quite enough as it is without trying to also grab hold every time to a team of horses and carriage," he said. "And if we think it is difficult to find quiet places where we can jump without alarming people, think what would happen if suddenly a coach and four, or even a curricle and a pair, suddenly appeared on some road before a farmer on his way to market?"

She giggled. "It would be amusing, at the least. Perhaps we could always do it at night, and create rumors of haunted carriageways."

He groaned. "Please, madam. No more ghosts."

Elizabeth ran a finger across the sill of the window and grimaced at the inch of dust she pushed off. "At least it does seem sufficiently abandoned," she said. "I don't think anyone will believe any but the most desperate soul would take residence here."

"Desperate we must be," he muttered, stepping around the ruined table and his now filthy clothing to glance through a doorway. "Blast."

"What is it?" she asked, hurrying over and peering around him. "Oh, dear. This must be the bedroom. The only bedroom."

"This may not work," he said with a sigh.

She smiled. "Nonsense. All we have to do is shake out the mattress and find some blankets and sheets somewhere. I shall be fine."

He glanced down at her. "And where, pray tell, would I sleep?"

Her smile turned wicked. "The hearth out here looks comfortable."

"Madam, I am forty-two," he said. "My bones cannot take such abuse anymore."

Elizabeth paid no mind to this objection. "How is it you knew of such a haunt?" she asked, turning back to the main room. She dusted off a chair with her handkerchief and then tested it for reliability before seating herself gingerly on it. As little as she weighed, it creaked in protest. "This doesn't seem the place you might install a mistress."

Darcy felt his ears heating, and he pulled at his cravat. "Elizabeth, I would hardly--"

"Tell me? Oh, no matter. I'm sure you've had quite lovely mistresses."

"This is my aunt's estate!" he choked out. "I would never--" Her laughter stopped him, and he narrowed her eyes at her. He ground out, "I took shelter here in a storm once."

"Well, I hope it wasn't on this particular visit," she said, "or we might be discovered."

"Even were it, it would have been later this year, so I think we are safe."

Elizabeth sighed, glancing around. "Might we perhaps get some newer furniture than this? I daresay it will be difficult to plan out our strategies when we cannot even put your notepad on the table." She picked up a table leg. "Or what's left of it."

Darcy thought for a moment, then collected the time machine from where he'd placed it safely on the floor. "Our best chance is to take the stuff from earlier, before it was destroyed by age. How far back do you think we ought to go?"

Elizabeth rolled her eyes. "Probably the time of King Richard, by the look of things."

Luckily, it was not necessary to jump so far. Only five minutes later, after jumping back and forth across a span of about two decades, they pushed the last of the chairs into place beneath a simple but antique table. As they brought each piece of furniture forward, the destroyed piece in the later time disappeared.

"I really don't know if I can wrap my thoughts around that," Elizabeth commented, setting their unadorned meal of bread, cheese, and cold soup on the worn but polished surface of the table. "How is it that the furniture simply ceased to be? Not that I don't appreciate not having to clean up all those pieces," she added.

"I don't even try to understand time travel anymore," Darcy said with a shrug as he took the hunk of bread and broke it, placing a share on each plate. He had removed his coat earlier when they were transporting the furniture, and now his shirtsleeve flopped around his hand as he reached across the table. "I wonder when I did that," he mused, examining the place where a button had been not too long before.

Elizabeth reached over and took his hand in hers to look closely at the button on the other sleeve. "I'm sure I can replace it. After dinner we could maybe jump to where I could find a new one of similar size. It wouldn't take long for me to sew."

"I had wanted to do a bit of planning directly after we eat," Darcy said. "Fitzwilliam and I came to Rosings about a week ago, and I know a number of things happened in the meantime, so I would like to take stock of what we recall and begin to explore our strategy. I can bear having an unbuttoned sleeve for a few hours."

She ceded to this plan, and the two settled into their small but nourishing meal. They had purchased at least a few days' worth of food before coming in the carriage to Kent, and, though rationing it, they were more than filled. Despite the relaxed nature of the table, however, neither felt inclined to conversation and, as the meal progressed, the atmosphere grew more and more strained. Out of the corner of his eye, Darcy watched Elizabeth as she destroyed her piece of bread, carelessly breaking it into little crumbles as she stared thoughtfully at the table. There was something on her mind, her grave countenance darkening more the longer she remained silent.

Darcy couldn't imagine what was so disturbing her, what could have changed in the past day between them that could have wrought this tension. He wondered if there might have been something in her newly learned memories that might have altered their balance, but if so what could it be? He couldn't recall anything he had done between the time he left Netherfield and came to Kent -- certainly nothing that should have affected her to this extent, even should she have learned of it by some means. Unless Wickham had told her anything more…

"Did you see Wickham after you'd left Longbourn for Kent, do you recall?"

She looked up at him, startled, and dropped the chunk of bread on her chipped plate. After he repeated the question, she brushed the crumbs from her fingers and shook her head. "That is, I did, but there was nothing new there. If anything, I can say that I lost a little of my admiration for him. Not to any great extent, but he began courting Miss King not long before I left."

"Miss King?"

"Ten thousand pounds," she said, the corner of her mouth lifting in a humorless smile. "But I justified it, knowing I had little to recommend me, other than my person. A man must live on more than love."

He frowned. "Do you truly believe that?"

She cocked her head slightly, looking at him, considering. "Do you not?" When he didn't respond, she sighed. "I don't mean to say that I would hold monetary concerns higher than any other when considering marriage for myself, but neither, I believe, can one wholly dismiss it. I am not a fortune hunter; my highest priority has been that I can respect my husband and hold him in some esteem, but even so I could never discount the need for financial security."

"And yet you married Wickham."

She glanced at him sharply, then turned back to her soup. "I was unaware of his true character when I did," she said softly. "We were all deceived."

That probably wasn't the best thing to say, he reflected as they settled again into an uneasy silence. At last, though, she seemed to tire of disintegrating her meal, for she pushed it aside and asked if he wished to go over their notes. He pushed aside his own plate, which had only marginally less food on it than hers, and agreed to the plan.

His tablet was in his coat pocket where he had left it earlier and, as Elizabeth was closest to the chair on which he had placed it, she made the first motion to fetch it. She went to the chair and pulled out the tablet, but as she did something else fell out and landed on the floor. Darcy saw it and immediately reacted, beginning to stand, but he was too far to stop her from reaching down and picking it up. She flipped it over to read aloud the name on the front: "Mr. Charles Bingley." Her head snapped up and she looked at him, her eyes narrowed. "When did he give you his card?"

Darcy froze, stiffening at the accusation in her voice. "When I saw him in London," he said.

"In London?" she repeated. "Was he the friend who came by the house? The one you had to speak with?" When he nodded, her lips tightened, and she looked away. After a moment, she looked back at him penetratingly and asked, "What was your conference about?"

Now it was Darcy who looked away. "That is confidential, Miss Bennet."

His answer seemed to inflame her, for when she spoke again, it was clear from the low and carefully moderated tone of her voice that she was teetering on the edge of losing her temper. "If it was so confidential, he would not have spoken to you, but to your younger self," she said. "But you don't seem to feel that distinction. What did you speak of? Was it Jane? Was it my sister?"

He pushed his chair back and moved from the table, going to stand by the fireplace. They had not yet laid a fire, and he moved the grate with the toe of his shoe. "That is hardly your concern," he said.

She came over to him, her skirts swirling about her as she moved swiftly, her chin jutting out as she came close and looked up at him. "Why do you refuse to answer me, Fitzwilliam Darcy?" she persisted. "Did he ask you about Jane?"

He tightened his lips before answering curtly, "He did."

"And you told him she was in London?"

"Why should I have?" he asked, pushing away from the fireplace. He paced across the room before turning again to her. "As you said, it was not my place to hear or interfere in confidences."

"I heard you as he left," Elizabeth said. "He is going to Scarborough."

"He has gone by now," Darcy confirmed. "As I recall, he called again the day before Fitzwilliam and I came down to Kent."

"Why did he leave London? Was it the same reason he left Netherfield?"

"What has this to do with anything, madam?" Darcy asked, irritated at her persistent questioning. "Why should it be anything to our purpose for you to know why he left? You are not going to marry Bingley."

"No, but my sister is."

"Your sister?" he echoed, a laugh escaping him. "I thought you despised matchmaking."

She flinched as though he had slapped her, and her face paled. For a moment the air was thick, the silence pregnant with emotion. "You went to the drawing room to see him," she said slowly when she had recovered, her voice low and controlled. "You could easily have had him brought to you in the study."

"And have you caught behind the curtain?"

She shook her head once, her hand cutting through the air sharply. "No. You cared nothing for that. Or if you did, it was only secondary to the purpose of not allowing me to hear what you said. You knew he was going to ask you about Jane. Did you advise him against her? Is that what this was all about? How long have you been keeping this from me?"

Darcy turned away from her, his jaw clenching. "This mission has never been about bettering your sisters' lives," he said. "This has been about you and me. We are not here to meddle in things we have no part in."

"So what did you do, then, if you did not meddle?" Elizabeth said, coming around the table to him. "Did you leave it as the status quo? What exactly, Mr. Darcy, is the status quo? Did you separate them? Was it you who separated them?"

He closed his eyes. "I did."

She sucked in a sharp breath at his admission, stepping back away from him. When he opened his eyes and looked at her, he saw her face pale and her eyes wide, her hand held to her chest as if to still her beating heart. Bingley's calling card was bent, still clenched in her other hand. "Why?" she asked. "Why would you do such a thing?"

"I did it for his own good," he said softly.

"For his own good?" she echoed. "How could it be for his own good? It certainly wasn't for hers."

"How can you say that?" he asked. "To be trapped in a loveless marriage, to know, when you believed yourself in love, that your partner had married you for reasons other than equal affection -- and then, such family and connections, such a degradation. It would slowly erode any feelings of esteem between them very quickly, leaving the relationship bitter and brittle. You, of all people, should understand such a life."

She was silent for a moment, her eyes downcast and her face half turned away. At last, she said in a hoarse voice, "I had always thought Mr. Bingley in love with my sister. I didn't realize his feelings were the opposite."

"Bingley?" he echoed before he could stop himself. When she looked at him sharply, he added, clarifying, "I meant your sister."

"You thought she did not love him?" He didn't answer, but the telltale flush on his cheeks told its own story. The anger returned to her voice. "I see. You thought she was dangling after him for his wealth, for the status of such a marriage. What, did you think that my mother was forcing her to accept Mr. Bingley's advances? Did you think she would have accepted him, no matter her feelings, no matter her thoughts on the matter?"

She stepped forward, her chin jutting out as she looked up at him. "And what did you mean, Mr. Darcy, when you spoke of her family and connections? The degradation, you said."

"You cannot deny that your family is not the most desirable connection one might have," he said, looking down at her, refusing to cede an inch. "And even beyond your own home -- your uncle is an attorney, your other uncle in trade. How could that advance Bingley's interests?"

"If it did not bother him, why should it bother you so much to interfere? It certainly isn't preventing you from seeking to make the connection between our families. And I should think the duty to your name an even greater obstacle than his."

"It is," he said. "How could it not be? Why do you think it is I have not paid my addresses? You are beneath me, Miss Bennet. You are not of my sphere. Your family, as low and vulgar as it is, would be a stain on my family history. You would not be accepted by many of my acquaintances, even some of my family; you would be viewed with suspicion as a fortune hunter and I with pity, with derision for having fallen into such a trap. You may be a gentleman's daughter, but you do not have the connections or the class to be of my world."

"Then why do you seek my hand?" she asked, her voice rising and her eyes flashing in anger. "Why are we doing this?"

"Because we must," he snapped, turning away.

She grabbed hold of his arm, pulling him back towards her. "No, Mr. Darcy. That is not good enough. You had no obligation to save me from Mr. Wickham. And even if you felt, for some misguided reason, that you did, you have no obligation to forward a match between us. You could have found some other gentleman for me to marry. You could have done all of this without me. You could have found a way. Why are we doing this?"

"Because I cannot leave you where you were."

"But you did not. You took me away from Wickham."

"I cannot keep you here, though, out of time. We cannot simply live together forever outside of our world."

"We wouldn't have to," she said. "You could take me anywhere. You could introduce my younger self to any number of younger men who might be a better choice than Wickham."

"I don't want to give you another choice," he said. "I want to give you me."

"But why? Why are we going through all this trouble when you despise my family, my connections, everything about me? Why are we doing this? Answer me!"

"Because we would be happy. Because we would have children. Because Pemberley would be prosperous. Because we would be happy."

She shook her head. "But how do you know that? How could you possibly know that what we are doing is what will make us happy?"

"Because I love you!"

The silence after his outburst was awful, painful. Her face pale and her eyes wide, Elizabeth stared at him before suddenly becoming aware of her position; she released his arm and stepped backwards, shaking her head. "You could not love me, Mr. Darcy. Not with the way you feel, the way you see me."

It was his turn to grasp her arms, holding her still and keeping her from retreating further from him. "You are wrong, Elizabeth: I need you. As little as I might realize it right now, I need you. I know I'm not perfect, but I know that I could be a better man. And you, more than anyone else, are exactly what I need to be the man I should be."

She shook her head, her eyes suspiciously bright. "And yet you could say such things. And yet you could hurt me through my sister. You ruined her happiness."

"You don't know that," he said. "We have not come far enough to know that they have been separated forever. Perhaps I thought differently later, or perhaps Bingley himself sought her out. When we are married, you would have even more influence as my wife to bring them together if you wished."

"I could not accept you, knowing what you had done," she said.

He felt as though his heart caught in his throat, and he forced his words around it: "But you did not know. Not then."

She paused. "No, I didn't," she admitted. "But I do now."

Darcy didn't know what to say. He felt as if everything -- their carefully constructed plans, all they had done so far -- was crumbling. And then it collapsed further.

"I want to go home, Mr. Darcy."

"Go home?" he echoed after moment in which he digested her words.

"To Somers Town," she confirmed. "I no longer want to be a part of this."

He needed to sit down. Swallowing with difficulty, he led her over to a chair and then took the chair opposite. "Elizabeth, think about this. We're so close to solving this. You cannot mean to leave now."

"I don't care about ... how close we are," she said, adding the last part in a pained voice as she stared intently at the tabletop. "I don't think this is a good idea. I think it would be better if you took me home."

"Not a good idea? How can you say that?" he asked. "I have never been more alive than since I've been with you. You have made me a better person. We would be good for each other. We would have children..." he said and watched as her expression softened into wistfulness. "We would be happy. You and I both know this."

She shook her head. "I need some time to think about this, Mr. Darcy."

"I won't take you back," he said, his voice desperate. "I cannot. You know I cannot. Not now."

"There was never a better time," she said. "We have done what we can, and maybe we just need to let it be. If it happens it happens, and if not..."

"Please, Elizabeth," he said, taking her hands in his.

She slipped her hands from his and pushed them firmly away. "No, Mr. Darcy. I think we need some time away from this. We've been going along, thinking we were acting for the best, and ... I'm not so convinced anymore."

He watched as a tear slipped down her cheek and felt as though she had stabbed him in the heart, so painful was the fear that filled him with every word. He could only think that he needed to keep her here, to convince her that they could fix whatever problems they had now. But now was not the time. Their emotions were running high.

"It is late," he said softly. "Perhaps we should retire, think on this more tomorrow. It has been a long day and our tempers are frayed."

"Perhaps," she agreed, nodding slowly. She hesitated, looked up at him for a moment, and then away. Silently, she stood and turned to make her way to the bedroom. When she reached the doorway, she paused, her hand resting on the frame. She did not turn, and her voice seemed strained: "Sleep well, Mr. Darcy."

"Sleep well," he said. "We shall talk further in the morning."

Elizabeth did not respond, and after the briefest of hesitations she entered the bedroom and closed the ill-fitting door behind her. Despite its ancient hinges, it closed with barely a sound. Darcy remained where he was, staring at the door for some minutes with a feeling of unease before he turned to gather the cushions they had brought from Netherfield for his bed.

But even they were no comfort as he attempted to find sleep before the hearth, where the fire was slowly dying. It wasn't the hard floor that kept him awake, however, nor the sounds of the cottage settling around him. It was his worries, the words Elizabeth had thrown at him and his own ill-judged behavior. Long into the night he thought about what he might say to her in the morning, how he might apologize and how they might set things to rights. It was nearly dawn when he finally, through sheer exhaustion, fell into a fitful sleep. When he awoke, only a handful of hours later, the cottage was filled with sunlight and the faint sound of chirping birds from nearby in the wood. But the cottage itself was silent and still.

Not wishing to disturb Elizabeth -- she had no doubt she slept as poorly as he -- he quietly collected their bucket and made his way out the front door and down to a nearby stream to wash. The water was cold and refreshing and shocked him out of his groggy half-awareness. He returned to the cabin with a newfound confidence in the day.

Nothing had changed since he'd been gone, so he built up the fire and set the kettle on for later, then looked through their store of food. It wasn't much, just enough to carry them over for a few days, but he pulled out some bread and cheese and fruit for their breakfast.

As he set the plates on the table, however, he couldn't shake the feeling that something was wrong. Unable to sit still with this vague anxiety eating at him, he folded his bedding and tidied the cottage, waiting for Elizabeth to emerge. At one point, he even put his ear to the door, but the room beyond was silent.

Perhaps, he thought, he might do some work on their plans. He went to his jacket to retrieve his notepad, but the pocket was empty. In disbelief, he checked the rest of his coat, but found nothing. It was then that the unease of the morning coalesced in his mind, and he suddenly realized what had been missing as he tidied the cottage:

The time machine.

A sickening feeling growing in the pit of his stomach, he began searching the room, every nook and cranny, even small drawers where he knew it would be too large to be found. When all had been searched, he reached Elizabeth's door and knocked, but there was no answer. Panic building, he knocked again and called to her, but she did not reply. He set his hand to the knob and turned, coming into the room and stopping just as suddenly.

The bed had been slept in, but it was empty now. The small table where she had set her valise earlier the night before bore it no longer. He approached with trepidation and picked up the sheet of paper that had taken its place.

Five minutes later, and Darcy was still seated on the bed, his head in his hands as he contemplated how everything had gone wrong.

Elizabeth was gone -- and he was stuck in time.