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Chapter Seven: Purgatory at Rosings

Posted on 2011-04-27

April 1812

Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam was amused. Despite his cousin's refusal to elaborate when he had delivered his curt request for their departure from London, it hadn't taken him long to discover the reason for their rather earlier-than-usual trip into Kent.

True, it was a full day before he was finally introduced to the reason, but her presence was nonetheless felt and appreciated in many ways long before that.

It all started, of course, as everything naturally does when one is staying at Rosings: with his aunt. It hadn't taken Lady Catherine de Bourgh long to mention the impudent miss visiting on invitation of her parson's new wife. She had been relating some of the changes in the country since they were there last -- including the supposed accomplishments of their cousin Anne, which amounted to not much more than embroidering a half-done screen, netting a rather dismal-looking purse, and, apparently, thinking about how wonderful a harpist she might have been had she the strength to play. The colonel had just exchanged a laughing glance with Darcy when the subject changed, bridging from ladies with accomplishments to those who seemed to have none -- other than an aptitude for impertinence, that is.

Colonel Fitzwilliam would have been a poor soldier to have not caught sight of Darcy start and the way in which he leaned forward slightly at the name of the young lady. It was not obvious, and he pretended nonchalance, but having known Darcy as long as he did the colonel could not be fooled. This was important.

In the following few days, the colonel made a point of peppering Darcy lightly with questions -- enough to gain some insight, but not enough to cause suspicion. When it came up that Mrs. Collins, the Lucases, and Miss Bennet were all from Hertfordshire, the colonel asked casually whether that wasn't where Darcy had gone with his friend what's-his-name recently. When he learned that Darcy had spent more than a month at Netherfield, the colonel asked several hours later how his time in Hertfordshire had gone. When it came up during their after-dinner Port the night after their visit to the parsonage that the colonel's mother was pestering him about finding a wife, and Darcy related a tale about recently helping out a fellow bachelor with a near-escape from the parson's mousetrap, the colonel innocently asked if there were any young ladies with whom his cousin had struck up a flirtation. The slightly flustered expression that crossed Darcy's face, the faint blush that crept up beneath his cravat told the colonel a world of information. And when he added that perhaps the impertinent Miss Bennet at the parsonage might be a welcome diversion for their stay, his cousin's reaction was all that he could hope for.

"Don't be crude, Fitzwilliam," Darcy said, his posture stiffening. "She is the daughter of a country gentleman."

"All the better," the colonel replied. "She should know which way is up."

Darcy narrowed his eyes. "You had better be bluffing, or I shall hold you responsible for anything you choose to do. And think hard on it, because though she may be beautiful and tempting, she is by no means adequately well connected or dowered for the son, especially the second son, of an earl."

The colonel sighed dramatically. "Ah, the deprivations we must face. I vow, Darcy, you have a bad habit of throwing my patrimony in my face at the most inconsiderate of times. I much prefer to think I exist wholly unconnected to anything save my pleasures."

A small smile tipped the edge of Darcy's lips upward, and he took a drink from his glass to hide it. "You are mad."

"Mad as a hatter," he replied. "And to prove it, I shall suggest we rejoin the ladies. Shall we?"

But there was no way the colonel could leave it there. It had always been thus between them: when younger, he had always seen every foible or inconsistency as an opportunity to tease. What else are cousins for?

And this? It had been far too long since he had seen Darcy interested in any woman. There had been that widow, nearly five or ten years past, who was under the keeping of a friend of theirs. Beautiful, witty, and talented, the woman had drawn Darcy like a moth to flame. It had led him to act like a green pup the few times they had come into actual contact, but it had amounted to nothing in the end. Having been witness to most of the affair, as well as a few expressions of self-pity while Darcy was in his cups, the colonel hadn't allowed it to pass without giving his cousin a good roasting.

So perhaps it's not surprising that he hadn't learned of his cousin's affaires de coeur. He'd either not had any or he'd gotten better at hiding his interest.

But once he'd twigged on it, there was no reason the colonel saw for holding back. Finding opportunity to do so was the most difficult part.

Their annual trip to Rosings in the spring always followed the same agenda -- check in with his aunt's tenants, fix any new troubles, and report back to the earl on the status of the estate. Lady Catherine's steward was a decent man, but for rather obvious reasons he lacked sound direction for most of the year. He was generally able to get a good start on things at first planting, but once crops started coming up, those little shoots seemed to instill in Lady Catherine an instinct for meddling. And that's where Darcy came in.

While their good aunt always thought his visits were to forward the supposedly imminent betrothal between Darcy and her daughter, he was in reality spending most of his days riding the estate and handling any issues that had cropped up. But while he was universally known as a sound, honest, and lenient landlord-by-proxy, Darcy wasn't exactly celebrated for his diplomacy. And that's where the colonel -- or whichever of his brothers happened to be visiting with Darcy that year -- stepped in. With an instinct for charm and ease of manner, the colonel was able to create a sense of camaraderie with the tenants and tradesmen and find out all the things that might have been overlooked: the leaks in roofs, the unruly neighboring squire's son who rode his horses through hedges, the worry over some set-backs at the mill. Unlike his cousin, the colonel was fluent in chucking babies' chins and sharing a round of ale down at the pub.

This year, though, the addition at the parsonage meant that Darcy was even harder to run to ground. If he wasn't engaged on estate business, he was prowling the grounds, waiting to catch sight of the lovely Miss Bennet, or visiting at the parsonage. It made it rather difficult to pin him down for a good ribbing.

So the colonel took whatever he could get. As he was coming back from checking out a slightly damaged fence with a tenant about 10 days into their visit, Colonel Fitzwilliam caught sight of Darcy heading into the house through the kitchen garden. He trotted a bit to catch him up, but knew he wouldn't make it with his limp, even if Rosing's rosy-cheeked cook waylaid his cousin with a tempting biscuit.

"Just a bit of the strangeness o' the gentry. I wouldn't think much on it."

Ducking his head under the lintel, the colonel waited for his eyes to adjust to the gloom of the kitchen and listened to the banging of pots and a few angry imprecations. "Well, it's all I asked if he was down here on account o' he wanted more food," came the voice of the usually imperturbably cheerful cook in response. "If he don't want a body knowin' he's in the habit o' makin' hisself a bite or two in the night, he oughtn't come down and ask for it, says I. That's no reason to look at one like that."

"He's just sore a cause o' that young lady at the parsonage -- the one what come here for dinner last week," put in one of the scullery maids with a whistle. "Oo-ee. She's got a mouth on her, ain't she?"

"No more'n you -- an' you shouldn't be talkin' o' your betters like that, if'n you know what's good for you," said the cook with a solemn nod. "An' how you should be knowin' anythin' about young ladies or gentlemen bein' sore is more'n I can see. Why, you'll be scrubbing pots for weeks if'n I catch you putting those peepers above stairs."

"Aw, I ain't gone nowhere near the stairs, Mrs. Robins. I just heard it from one of the footmen."

"Yeah -- Sams, what she's been walkin' out with!" added one of the girls stoking the fire on the other end of the kitchen.

The cook's ruddy cheeks got ruddier as she wagged a thick finger at the hapless maid. "If'n I so much as hear you been--" she broke off as she caught sight of the tall gentleman in the doorway. Her cheeks paled, then grew red again as she curtsied awkwardly. A wave of curtsies and bows went through the kitchen as silence fell.

"So sorry to interrupt, Mrs. Robins," the colonel said with a smooth smile, doffing his hat. "Did you happen to see my cousin come through here?"

The cook's eyes flicked to the doorway on the opposite end of the room before coming back to rest on her favorite of Lady Catherine's guests. "Aye, I did, Colonel. You missed him by a hairsbreadth."

"I hope he hasn't disturbed you with his orneriness, Mrs. Robins," the colonel said, coming further into the room and lifting a lid on one of the pots to take a whiff. "Estate business has got him a bit out of sorts. Nothing one of your fine meals wouldn't fix, I'm sure."

The older woman preened at his compliment. "You're a right one, Colonel; that you are. D'you want a piece of cake afore you go? Freshly made for tea."

"How you do spoil a lad," he said. "You're going to send me back to my post a good stone heavier."

"A few cakes never done a body harm," she said with a tsk.

So the colonel was sent on his way with a piece of cake in one hand and a puzzle in mind. He caught up to his cousin at the foot of the main staircase, where he had been delayed by a word with the butler.

"Darcy!" the colonel said, catching up as the butler moved away and his cousin turned to make his way up the stairs. The younger man waited for him patiently. "What has gotten into you recently?"

Darcy didn't respond verbally to the taunt; the expression he gave his cousin was more than adequate. "Perhaps we might talk in more privacy than shouting across the hall?"

Colonel Fitzwilliam grinned. "A drink, then?"

His cousin sighed. "Let's go to my chambers. We'll talk as I get out of these dusty clothes."

"I don't quite understand what you're about, cousin," the colonel said with a smile as they ascended the stairs. "Even our aunt has begun to notice how much time you've been spending away from the house. For heaven's sake -- you were late for tea yesterday."

"I was otherwise occupied," was Darcy's only response.

"And how could you offend Mrs. Robins? She's the only thing that stands between us and starvation."

Darcy stopped and glanced sideways at the colonel. "Offend Mrs. Robins?" he echoed.

"The cook, man," the colonel said in good-natured frustration. "You seem to have upset her with your overly brusque ways."

"She was impertinent," Darcy said, resuming the walk up the stairs. "She asked me if I were in the kitchens for more food."

"Well?"

"Well what?"

"Were you?"

"Of course not!" Darcy snapped with unusual emotion. Stopping at the top of the staircase, he took a breath and schooled his expression. "I haven't the foggiest what the woman was on about. I do not filch my rations from the pantry." He glanced wryly at the cake in his cousin's hand. "Unlike some people I could name."

The colonel unabashedly downed the treat in one bite. "Well, you couldn't blame me for asking. I thought maybe your appetite had increased for some reason. You know what they say about a young man in love…"

"Stubble it, Fitzwilliam," Darcy said as he opened the door to his room.

His valet was just coming through the connecting door as they entered, a shirt over one arm and a basket of sewing implements in the other. "Ah, sir. I found a button that will suit."

"I beg your pardon?" Darcy said in surprise.

"The button," his valet repeated. "For your shirt. I can sew on a new one in but a few seconds, sir, though it would be much easier if I could work on it freely, so I brought a new shirt for you, as well."

Darcy stared at his man, his expression baffled. "I don't need a new button."

This appeared to check the other man, who stopped and stared in confusion at his master, then at Colonel Fitzwilliam, who had taken a position by the hearth. "But sir…"

Darcy was getting visibly frustrated. "Look, I have all the buttons I need," he said, holding up his arms and pulling down the sleeve on each in turn to show off his cuffs. When the valet's response to this was to drop his jaw and stare, Darcy waved the man away brusquely. "I will take the shirt, Geoffries, but I would wish for a fresh pair of breeches, stockings, and neckcloth, as well."

The man, recovering himself, bowed and retreated.

"That was rather interesting," the colonel said, taking a cigar from the box on the mantel, biting off the end, and lighting it with a spill from the fireplace. "Do you often have buttons disappearing and reappearing on your shirts?"

Darcy speared a hand through his hair and sighed. "Laugh all you want, Richard, but this is only one of the many peculiarities that have occurred in the past few days. Little things, people swearing they just saw me somewhere I wasn't. If it weren't for the fact that I'm absolutely convinced of my own sanity, I would wonder if I weren't losing my memory."

Colonel Fitzwilliam blew out a puff of smoke and then looked contemplatively at the cigar. "Men in love, my dear cousin--" he began, but was cut off by a rude comment from Darcy. He chuckled, but refrained from any more observations as the valet reappeared from the dressing-room.

As Darcy changed, the colonel wandered over to the window and looked out onto the lawns below. The gently rolling pastures of the Rosings estate were fresh and green, and he marveled once again at the thought of what the beauty of the manor and estate could be if not under the thumb of his rather autocratic aunt. Closely cropped hedges, exact gardens, and perfectly manicured lawns were fashionable, but nothing to the wild and untamed exposures he was used to in Derbyshire, at his father's primary estate and at Pemberley.

He took a puff on his cigar and exhaled slowly. Darcy sneezed to his right. "Bless you," the colonel said, finally turning his gaze away from the scenery.

"Beg pardon?" Darcy said, coming up on his left.

"I was just thinking," Colonel Fitzwilliam said, "are you truly set against marrying Anne?"

Darcy focused on buttoning his coat and then straightening his sleeve lengths before looking squarely at his cousin. "Are you interested in pursuing your own case?"

The colonel leaned back against the window frame and smoked thoughtfully on his cigar for a moment. "I might if the field were open," he said. "Our dear aunt has always had blinkers on when it's come to her daughter's marriage prospects, and they've been focused solely on you. Only Andrew drew the least bit of interest, but after he was safely hitched the rest of us -- even Lewis -- were as attractive a prospect as a fishmonger compared with you."

"But you would take her?" Darcy asked. "For Rosings?"

The colonel tipped back his head against the glass pane. After a moment, he nodded his head. "For Rosings."

"Without a shred of affection."

That remark earned Darcy a glare. "I am fond of my cousin," the colonel said, pushing away from the window and limping to the hearth, where he threw his cigar into the fire. "It would be a far sight better than the arranged marriages one sees every day in society."

"Then what are you waiting for?" Darcy asked, still looking out the window.

"You."

Darcy turned to face him, surprised. "Me?"

"Yes, you," the colonel repeated. "I'm waiting for you to clear the track. As long as she thinks she's still got you in the race, our dear aunt will never consider any of the other contenders. And considering Anne's health and -- let's admit it -- advanced age for an unfettered female, there's apparently not anyone else lining up at the post, even given her ... material attributes. But until you're out of the way, I might as well be dog meat."

"What about your commission?"

The colonel shrugged and, cautiously lowering himself into a chair, set his cane to the side. "I'll sell out. It's not as if they're going to send me back to the lines with this leg. The doctors have pretty much given up hope. I'll be on desk duty at Whitehall the rest of my career, if I'm so lucky. If I were able to gain an estate such as this, however," he said, waving his hand toward the window, "I think I would be satisfied."

"Then I'll cede you the prize," Darcy said after a moment of silence. "My interests lie elsewhere."

Colonel Fitzwilliam looked at his cousin closely, a small smile on his lips. "And you're prepared to tell that to Lady Catherine de Bourgh?"

A slight flush arose in Darcy's cheeks, and he turned back to the window. "That will cease to be a question in the not-too-distant future, I think," he said finally. "She will be forced to accept that I will not marry her daughter."

A low whistle escaped the colonel's lips. "You're serious about this."

Darcy whirled back to face his cousin, his eyes narrowed. "About what?"

Colonel Fitzwilliam held his hands up in a gesture of surrender. "Nothing, nothing. Just that you're not going to marry Anne." He paused and looked at Darcy keenly. "You know Father won't approve."

The other man sighed and ran a hand over his face. "I know. I've been struggling with this for a while now, and I know."

"Is it certain?" the colonel asked.

"The words have not been spoken yet, if that's what you mean," Darcy replied. "But, yes, it's just a matter of when."

The colonel thought for a moment. "The party from the parsonage is engaged to tea tomorrow, I believe. I might be able to distract Lady Catherine long enough for you to take a certain someone out into the garden. After all, you are running out of time. Are we not leaving on Friday? Or perhaps I should tell my man to delay my packing again," he added pointedly.

Darcy shook his head. "No. We will leave as planned on Friday. And I thank you for the offer of a diversion, but I do not think I shall need it. I will find my own way."

"Are you certain?" the colonel asked, his expression turning puckish. "I could maybe give you a recommendation. Plant a few of your good qualities in her ear."

His cousin glared at him repressively. "Again, I thank you, but I must decline," he said. "You would undoubtedly only highlight my faults, as you did the other evening."

The colonel laughed and stood. "Now, you cannot find me culpable there. You instigated that yourself." He pointed his cane towards the door. "Shall we go downstairs for a drink? All this talk of love and marriage has parched my throat, I fear."

"And that," Darcy said, "is entirely of your doing. I should have been perfectly content to never have addressed the topic with you, and I am more than willing to end it here."

But the talk of love and marriage wasn't yet over. They did, indeed, retire the subject for the day, particularly as Lady Catherine soon discovered their hiding place and insisted on them joining her and Anne for tea. The next morning, however, as the colonel was enjoying a leisurely smoke and a book, he was interrupted by his cousin engaging him on the very topic he had been so against discussing the day before.

"There you are, Fitzwilliam," Darcy said, coming into the library. "I was wondering if I could talk to you about Miss Bennet."

Colonel Fitzwilliam knew the shock was visible on his face at such directness, and he took his pipe from his lips before it fell to the floor like his jaw had done. He glanced towards the door, but his cousin had closed it behind him. There were no worries there. "Miss Bennet," he echoed slowly. "What of her?"

The other man came further into the room, stopping directly in the line of sight of the window. The colonel squinted into the sunlight, trying to make out his cousin's expression. "I was thinking further on what you suggested yesterday," Darcy said, "of perhaps speaking with Miss Bennet of my ... finer points."

The colonel laughed, sitting forward and setting his book on the table next to him. "Darcy, I wasn't serious."

"I am," his cousin replied. "I think it might be advisable."

There was a moment of silence as Colonel Fitzwilliam digested this. He sat back in his chair and tapped his pipe against his chin. "Are you now unsure of her answer?" he asked at last. "You were rather certain yesterday. What changed?"

Darcy moved away, towards the window, with his back to the room. He stared out the window for some time before saying, "I've come to the conclusion that Miss Bennet will not be swayed by wealth and position. All that I have to recommend me are my character and reputation. If I am to offer, I would wish those qualities to be in the forefront of her thoughts when I approach her."

"So I should tell her you are a wonderful cousin, an admirable brother, and a loyal friend."

"Perhaps," Darcy said noncommittally.

The colonel sighed. "Well, I was planning on taking my usual tour of the park this morning. I've spent all of my time this visit down in the village and haven't yet covered the grounds."

"They are much the same as usual. Square and overly manicured."

"And yet, I still wish to see them," the colonel said with a laugh. "But I will call at the parsonage as I conclude my ramble and I will speak with your Miss Bennet. Will that satisfy?"

"Admirably," replied Darcy. He turned from the window and offered his cousin a short bow. "I thank you for your efforts."

Colonel Fitzwilliam chuckled softly to himself as he watched Darcy exit the room, his tall figure disappearing through the doorway. "There goes a man in love," he said, setting aside his pipe and ensuring that his book held a marker. There was no time like the present to get a start on his mission.

A few minutes later, though, he was on his way back through the front hall, taking his hat and gloves from the butler, when he was arrested by his cousin's voice: "Are you going to the village, Fitzwilliam?"

Surprised by the question, the colonel turned to see Darcy strolling through the hall from the direction of the study. "No. As I said before, I am off for a tour of the park, and then a call at the parsonage."

"At the parsonage?" his cousin echoed, glancing down at the papers in his hand. "Perhaps I might join you."

Colonel Fitzwilliam narrowed his eyes. What was he playing at? Why would Darcy suggest that his cousin go about the wooing-by-proxy business if he were only going to be there himself?

But in the next moment, Darcy answered the dilemma with a sigh: "But I don't really have time. I need to finish these accounts before we leave."

Shaking his head at his cousin's clear lack of focus, the colonel drew on his gloves and set his hat at a jaunty angle. "Have joy of your accounts, then, Darcy," he said. "And I shall have joy of my walk."

And, tapping the head of his cane to his brim in salute, he set off to do just that.

He had done the best he could over the past few days, given the circumstances. Without the time machine, there was no time-hopping, no Elizabeth to explain what she had been feeling, what had happened on her end. And there was only so much reconnaissance one could do when one was fifteen years older than the person everyone knew.

He grinned, remembering the encounter he'd had in the park with Miss Bennet earlier in the week. He'd come upon her in the grove as he'd been on his way to Rosings and, unprepared to let such an opportunity pass by, he'd asked to accompany her. She'd been willing, if hesitant, and during their walk he'd been as charming as he could. And she seemed to respond, though several times she'd looked at him in curiosity -- an expression that always made him nervous that somehow she had figured out he wasn't himself. She'd been so eager to continue their walks, however, that she had even gone so far as to tell him that she walked in the grove every day. If that weren't progress, he wasn't sure what was.

And now -- well, now it was a matter of waiting. He knew he was going to propose; it was just a matter of when. Elizabeth would accept, they would become engaged, they would marry, and then ... well, that would be an end to it.

As that thought settled into his brain, he sat up, disturbed by a feeling of uneasy dread. If he was right, if Wickham had been right, he would simply disappear, cease to exist. But he wasn't ready to die yet.

Feeling the need to move around again, he stood and made his way out of the tiny bedroom and into the main room of the little cottage. He started a fire, set the kettle on, and sat down at the table. As he waited for the water to heat, he played nervously with a ribbon he'd found a few days ago. Certain it was Elizabeth's, he'd been carrying it around like a good luck charm, in the vague and unreasonable hope that it might draw her back to him like a signal fire.

But it hadn't worked. She'd stayed away, God only knew where, somewhere else in time. He'd stayed at the cottage instead of moving into Rosings, thinking that she might search for him there if she returned, but she hadn't. When he'd gotten food from the kitchens at Rosings, he'd picked up more than he could eat, thinking she would need refreshments when she came back. But she didn't. And now he was nearly finished with their mission -- and she still hadn't returned. He would fade into oblivion without ever seeing her again. He couldn't even say he was sorry.

At the beginning of this, Wickham had said that he didn't want to leave anyone with regrets. He'd been a fool. Life was regrets -- things that hadn't gone to plan, things that one might have done better, had it only been known what would happen. True, Darcy would soon cease to exist, and so would his regrets, but they were here now. He had to live with them. Until he faded away.

This must be how the man on his way to the gallows feels, Darcy thought with a grimace. Knowing the inevitability that all one knew would shortly disappear, not knowing what came after. Would it be painful? Would he even be aware of the passing?

And Elizabeth was still out there somewhere. Or was she? With a sigh, he put the ribbon back in his pocket and took the whistling kettle off the stove to pour the water over the tealeaves he'd acquired from Mrs. Robins. When he sat back down, waiting for the pot to brew, he considered the question.

Elizabeth had gone into the future, most likely -- back to where she had started. But they had already established that as they moved forward in time their memories would only be accessible to them as the events happened. And Wickham had faded away only as the circumstances showed it to be impossible for his future to exist. Therefore, the existence of both he and Elizabeth were tied to the time they were in and the circumstances they were creating. Time travel was possible only up to the moment that their line of the future became untenable. So, then, the question went, if she advanced past the time when Darcy and Elizabeth had married, would she -- Elizabeth Wickham -- not cease to be?

Darcy felt a cold hand grip his heart and he flattened both hands on the table, focusing on breathing steadily. No wonder she hadn't come back. She couldn't. She didn't exist.

The grief that flowed through him at the thought was profound, and a deep sob wracked his body. He set his elbows on the flat of the table and ran both hands through his hair as tears filled his eyes. He hadn't cried since the day his mother died and yet here he was, weeping over a woman who didn't exist.

He'd ruined things thoroughly. Yes, he was about to change the past irrevocably, to ensure that he and Elizabeth would marry, raise children, grow old together. But in the process he'd compromised his own beliefs and made a hash of the very relationship he wanted most to succeed. And if he, a man aged by time and experience, did not have the wisdom to love, respect, and cherish Elizabeth, how could he expect his younger self to do so?

But it was too late now, he realized suddenly as he cast his mind back to this day, this afternoon at tea -- he was going to propose.

Contrary to his expectations, though, he wasn't proposing at Rosings. He was on his way to the parsonage. Elizabeth hadn't come, had made an excuse of having a headache. What had happened? Something was wrong.

Swiftly, Darcy got up from the table and left the cottage, heading in the direction of the parsonage. His long legs ate up the ground as he walked, nearly running in his haste to be present, to see firsthand the moment in which his past changed. He didn't even think how he would go about doing any such thing, though, until he got to the edge of the wood, the parsonage in sight. He paused, taking in the scene.

His younger self had just arrived and was being admitted into the house by a maid. Glancing around, Darcy skirted the edge of the woods, staying far enough back in the shadows not to be seen, and when he thought he was safe he dashed across the lawn, into the garden in the back of the house. He crept along the wall until he came to a window. He heard a voice -- the maid, identifying the caller, and then the response from Miss Bennet. The window was open, letting in the fresh, warm spring air. He crouched down beneath the window and made himself comfortable.

At first, he heard little of use. Darcy asked after Miss Bennet's health, and when the response came they fell into silence again. From outside, he could hear only the sound of movement -- the sound of someone settling into a chair, a creaking floorboard. He would have wished to peek over the windowsill but knew he couldn't take the chance of being seen. He listened and waited.

But then, the words he had been waiting for: "In vain have I struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

It was a fair beginning, he thought. Passionate, declaring upfront that he was in love with her. Surely his honesty, his ardor could not fail to move her.

But there he was wrong. There was no response from Elizabeth, and within moments his younger self continued. To the elder Darcy's approval, he elaborated on his feelings and the reasons he was drawn to her, but soon Darcy felt the blood drain from his face as he listened to himself speak of his struggles with the nature of her inferiority of station, of its being a degradation, and of the family obstacles which by his judgment had been difficult to overcome. He spoke of his family, of how it was unlikely they would view the match with a friendly eye. He spoke of the advantages she would find in becoming his wife, and of his anxiety and anxiousness that she reply in the affirmative to his addresses.

But Darcy knew there would be no answer from Miss Bennet that could result in such a positive outcome. He had already the experience to know that -- but his younger self wouldn't. It was perhaps something his younger self might have learned, had he put in the effort to engage her. But with the progression of their non-courtship, there had been so little time for him to get to know her truly, to gain a strong understanding of her triggers, of the way in which she thought and acted. No matter her inclination before, this approach would only lead to rejection.

Her first words confirmed his deepest fears:

"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned," she said, her voice trembling in anger. "It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could feel gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot -- I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to any one. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation."

Outside, Darcy buried his face in his hands, aware of the awful silence inside contrasting sharply with the cheerful chirps of birds in the brush. That silence was painful to his senses, the more so because he could remember now the hurt, the pain he had felt at her words. But the worst was yet to come.

He listened as she accused him of separating Bingley from her sister, her words echoing her older self's charges against him. He listened as she defended Wickham. He listened as he attempted to justify himself, to place the blame of pride and vanity on her own shoulders -- and he listened as she quickly corrected him.

"You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared me the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentleman-like manner," Elizabeth said, her words clipped but otherwise composed. "You could not have made me the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it.

"From the very beginning, from the first moment I may almost say, of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form that ground-work of disapprobation, on which succeeding events have built so immoveable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."

The last man.

Darcy closed his eyes and leaned his head back on the house. How had it come to this? Here he was, trapped at Rosings, eavesdropping on a failed proposal and knowing that he deserved every word she had thrown at him. Doubly so: he had been no less of a prideful fool as he'd attempted to bring them together as he had been when he assumed that because of his wealth, status, and connections, she could not fail to accept him. He had been so sure of himself, so deluded, so forgetful of Wickham's lies, so sure she could not have known of his interference in Bingley's affairs. Elizabeth had been right. She'd been right about everything.

She had tried to warn him, but he'd dismissed her words as emotional, as built on knowledge and experience her younger self wouldn't have. He'd brought her along to help him understand her, but he'd ignored her at the crucial moment and he suffered her rejection because of it.

He hadn't been thinking. All this time, as he'd been planning for their future and how best to achieve it, he'd been building it in his mind without ever considering her wishes. He'd imagined them at Pemberley -- but never with her family. He'd imagined that perhaps Elizabeth, once married, would help her sisters to also marry well -- but never considered where their hearts may lie. He'd imagined that they would live happily ever after -- but he hadn't done anything to achieve that aim.

He was no better than his younger self had been. He'd told Elizabeth once that he was older, wiser by his marriage, but now he was not so assured. Yes, he had learned that his wealth and connections were not the purveyors of happiness, or that a true marriage was not built solely on status and breeding. But when he'd believed that respect and esteem were essential, he'd never gone the next step in logic to acknowledge that the respect and esteem need be mutual -- that he would have to cultivate that trust and honor before expecting it to be given.

Yes, there were limits to what he was able to change. He was hemmed in by his self-created rules of time travel, of non-interaction. He had bent them slightly in recent days, and perhaps it was that which led to this debacle. In his haste to marry them, he had not realized he was cutting short all the methods of courting, of building mutual esteem. And it was here where he erred: he could not have altered his younger self's mindset or corrected all of Miss Bennet's misunderstandings without first correcting his own.

He hadn't known what it was to truly love someone, to respect them to the point one would be willing give up preconceived notions, to respect them so much to adapt one's future for the benefit and vision of both. Elizabeth had been right. He did not truly love her. Not enough.

A noise in the woods opposite, like the slow approach of a person's tread, roused him, but he did not stand. Indeed, at first he couldn't even find the energy to raise his head. He was still too shocked, too beaten, too bruised and raw to care what a sight he must make, sitting against the house on a pile of dirt in Mrs. Collins' garden.

But at last he raised his head to see the only person he wanted to see, standing on the edge of the wood, the hood of her cloak thrown back, her gown travel-worn, the time machine under her arm. She stood there, staring at him, a world of understanding in her gaze.

After several minutes, she approached slowly, stopping in front of him. She crouched down, setting the time machine on the ground and taking his hands in hers.

"I'm sorry," she said.

He closed his eyes again, absorbing the comforting feel of her hands on his, her smooth kid gloves soft against his skin. Her hands were so small, so fragile, and felt so perfect in his.

"I'm sorry, too," he said.

They stayed like that, hand in hand, for a moment before Elizabeth stood and drew him to his feet. A tired smile curved her lips. "Come," she said. "We've got all the time in the world to fix this."

Chapter Eight: Cleaning the Slate

Posted on 2011-05-04

July 1823

She hadn't really been thinking when she'd left, Elizabeth Wickham realized as she stood in the middle of her garden, watching the laundry rustle on the line as a soft breeze blew. Several shirts remained in the basket where she had left them when she and Mr. Darcy had departed Somers Town. They were still wet, although it seemed like years ago since she had been here.

She hadn't planned on what she would do, where she would go -- what Mr. Darcy would do, stuck at Rosings, back in time, without the means to travel. She had simply known she had to leave.

With a sigh, she set down the time machine and her valise and finished hanging the laundry, then returned to the house with her traveling gear in tow.

The kitchen was shabby and cramped; even more so than that tiny little cottage she had just left at Rosings. She set her burdens on the table and sat down on a chair. She was exhausted; she hadn't slept well the night before, her thoughts swimming in the morass of worry, anger, and frustration engendered by her argument with Mr. Darcy.

She felt tears threatening and rested her head in her hands, leaning her elbows on the table.

This whole experience had been a complete mess. From the very moment when Mr. Darcy had stepped into her garden to the moment she had bid him a silent good-bye in the cottage, her world had been turned upside-down. And no wonder -- how often is one allowed to travel through time? But it was more than that: it was Mr. Darcy.

She was so confused about her feelings for him. Throughout it all, every memory, every emotion had been blended -- part of it past, part of it present. She could remember her feelings for him -- for his younger self -- as well as her own feelings for him -- for what he had become. He wasn't an ideal man, in either case. He was full of pride, conceit, and arrogance; so sure he was right, so certain that he knew what was best for everyone.

And yet, those flaws had not been so consequential when she had been with him. They had been tempered -- or, at least, she'd thought they had been. She had thought he loved her enough for her past not to matter, for her circumstances, for her family, for all her trappings not to make a difference in his feelings and his respect for her. But she'd been wrong -- so incredibly wrong.

After their argument, she had spent some time thinking in the quiet of her room. And as the dim light of dawn began to creep its way across the floorboards, she had decided to leave him. If he wouldn't take her back to Somers Town, she would go on her own. Perhaps she would only be gone a brief period, returning within moments of when she left, but she needed the time away, the time to think, to be distant enough from him and his influence to look clearly at their situation. She had to know if marriage was right for their younger selves. She had to know whether they would truly work or if he would never truly change, if he was the kind of man who would continue to let his pride interfere.

She already knew so much about the man he became. But how much of it was influenced by his marriage to Mrs. Darcy? Would it simply be a different kind of mistake? Would a marriage between Elizabeth Bennet and Fitzwilliam Darcy ever yield different results, or would he become as dissatisfied with their marriage as he was with his current one? Was she willing to risk everything to find out?

It was so simple, so incredibly simple to creep quietly out of her room in the cottage to find the time machine and the notebook with coordinates sitting just there on the table. But as she had turned, she caught sight of him lying on the cushions before the hearth, his eyes closed in sleep, and she had been drawn to him despite her better judgment. She had watched him for a few moments, emotions of pain and regret washing over her. His face, despite its tired appearance, appeared so young and peaceful in repose. A lock of hair, still dark and yet threaded with grey, had fallen over his eyes and stirred with every breath. Her hands had itched to tuck that lock back behind his ear, to caress his face. It had been all she could do to turn away and change the coordinates of the time machine, to jump forward to her own time. She didn't want to leave, but knew she had to.

Their argument had been horrid; brutal in its honesty, in baring the many emotions and thoughts they had kept hidden from each other. She had been already smarting from the memories that were slowly returning to her of her sister's unhappiness and her belief in Mr. Bingley's friend's and sisters' involvement in that heartbreak. Then to have those suspicions confirmed in so devastating a fashion broke her own heart and shattered her illusion of Mr. Darcy.

Even before they had gone back in time, she had known her sister never recovered from losing Mr. Bingley. That couple-never-to-be had only been acquaintances for a short time, but when soul speaks to soul ... and then, just as before, he had left. Oh, of course, Jane had married. How could someone as beautiful and sweet and obedient as she have not -- how could she have left her family to face the future without security? She had married comfortably, if not well -- a widower merchant with several children -- but there hadn't been any true love in it. Jane had been able to provide for Mrs. Bennet and their younger sisters after their father died, and though she hadn't had children of her own yet in her six years wed, she'd been content.

But not happy. The few times Elizabeth had seen her sister in the intervening years, when Jane had come to visit and tried to advance her some money for support, Elizabeth had seen the truth of her sister's state. They were both, in their own fashion, too sensible to dwell on what couldn't be changed. But neither were they happy.

And now that Elizabeth and Darcy had changed the past? Now that she and Darcy had given them that extra time to fall in love, now that Jane had spent so much more time with Mr. Bingley, only to still be ripped apart and separated at the involvement of Mr. Bingley's sisters and Mr. Darcy? To be honest with herself, Elizabeth acknowledged that she couldn't honestly say that the involvement of Mr. Bingley's sisters and Mr. Darcy in the matter had not happened before she and Darcy had gone back to change the past -- they quite easily might have been the ones responsible then, too, for all she knew. But the pain was fresh and raw now, and once she did know the truth, she could not turn a blind eye to it.

She tried to remember what happened to Jane, but nothing new came to mind. The present was still the same. Her sister was still married to Mr. Thornton, was still placid and sweet, and visited occasionally at Somers Town. But Elizabeth couldn't remember the last time she'd seen her sister smile with any of the true warmth and humor she could recall from before her disappointment.

How could she forgive Mr. Darcy for that? He spoke of his love for her, but she knew he could not -- not if he would think such things of her, not if he could ruin her sister's happiness. He never thought of her, of her family, of anything but his own selfishness when he was making his plans. So she would not think of him.

Her musings were interrupted by the sound of the front door opening and heavy footsteps charging up the stairs to their little bedroom. Elizabeth was ready when, moments later, the call came for her presence.

"Woman!"

"Yes, Mr. Wickham?" she asked patiently as she came through the doorway a few moments later to find her husband rummaging through the wardrobe. Shirts and coats were scattered everywhere.

"Where is my brown beaver?" Wickham asked, turning to her and setting his hands on his lean hips.

Without a word, she went to the wardrobe and, stretching on the tips of her toes, reached onto the top shelf and pulled down a hatbox. She handed it to him forcefully. "Where are you going?"

"Out," he answered curtly, tossing a few of his underthings into his bag. "We'll be gone a few days."

"Another boxing match? Or is it a cock fight this time?"

"What does it matter to you?"

"Because you're spending our money betting on those bloody unchristian games. How could I not care when I'm forced to pinch every penny I can keep out of the hands of the ten-percenters?"

He turned sharply to her, his lips curling in a sneer. "If your father hadn't--" He broke off suddenly, his expression changing as he took in her appearance for the first time. "Where did you get the gown?"

Elizabeth froze, her breath drawn in sharply. She couldn't formulate a reply, knowing that the truth was incomprehensible. He grabbed her arm and shook her. "Have you been keeping money from me?"

"No!" she said finally. "No. This wasn't -- this was a gift."

"From whom?" he asked, his eyes narrowed. "Are you entertaining when I'm not here?"

"How dare you!" Her free hand clawed at the vice grip he had on her upper arm. "I would never!"

"Then who gave you the money for a new gown? What man has dared--"

"It was Mrs. Simpson!" Elizabeth cried. He paused, his surprise giving her the opportunity to wrench her arm from his grasp. She backed up several steps before continuing with her lie: "Her daughter is about my age, and we have near the same figure."

"So you're accepting cast-offs from our neighbors, now?"

"Oh, and you aren't? So what I've heard about you and Mrs. Lovelace isn't true?"

Anger flashed in his eyes, and his lips compressed into a thin line for a moment before curling again into a sneer. "Actually, it is. Would you like more details? Shall I tell you how she--"

Elizabeth put both hands over her ears and closed her eyes to his crudeness as he continued. This wasn't new. She'd heard all of it before; the only difference was the name of the woman. She wouldn't be tortured by it again. When she heard the muted sound of his chuckle, she opened her eyes again to see him returning to his packing.

"Why did you marry me?"

At her words, Wickham turned to face her. His expression was startled; he hadn't been expecting the question. If truth be told, neither had she; it had simply come out of her mouth, the product of her earlier musings.

She watched as his eyes shifted uneasily. His lips compressed in thought. "I imagined you would bring me more money," he said at last.

"Oh."

He laughed shortly. "Why, did you think I had loved you?"

Elizabeth shrugged. "It was as good a guess as any," she replied, her exhaustion returning to her in a wave. She eased herself onto a rickety chair by the tiny dressing table.

"You have been a rather severe disappointment, my dear," he said, snapping his bag closed. "But you were my only option after I lost sight of the King fortune. You were a good enough handful to be tempting. And your father did well enough for you while he was alive. I simply hadn't expected him to be so shrewd in tying up the rest of your inheritance after he died. Or to die so quickly."

"And that was it, then? It was all about the little bit of money I could bring you?"

Again, his eyes shifted. "Yes," he replied curtly. He paused, as if he were going to say more, but then seemed to decide against it.

She filled in the silence: "Why do you hate Mr. Darcy?"

Wickham's face filled with rage, his hands clenched. "Darcy," he spat. "You know why I hate him."

"Did he really deny you the living?" she asked. "Did he give you nothing in exchange for it?"

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. "What do you know of it?" When she didn't reply, he stepped toward her. "Has he been here? What did he tell you?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," she replied. "I haven't seen Mr. Darcy since..." she trailed off, a flood of memories sweeping through her as she cast her mind back: the walks with him at Rosings, her talk with Colonel Fitzwilliam, the awful proposal, that last glimpse of him as he disappeared through the doorway at the parsonage, his back straight, his hands clenched. "... ten years ago," she finished faintly, glad she had been sitting down.

Wickham snorted. "I'm only surprised he didn't try to run to your rescue when you married me," he said, his voice a touch bitter. "You knew he was in love with you?"

Elizabeth shook her head weakly, unwilling to acknowledge his insight. She clenched her hands in her lap, trying hard to keep the tears from spilling out of her eyes.

"The old boy had it bad," Wickham continued, picking up his valise from the bed. "Pity, isn't it? You could have married him instead, had a hundred little brats and lived happily ever after. And instead, you get to stay here and wait for me while I enjoy myself at a horse race."

And with a nasty chuckle, he strode across the room, tipped her head back by pulling on her hair, pressed a forceful kiss to her mouth, and left. His laughter echoed up the stairs until the slam of the front door drowned it out.

But it was his whispered words of farewell that remained in her ears long after he'd gone: "Don't do anything I would do, my dutiful wife."

Why shouldn't she? Why should she sit here and remain chaste, obedient, abandoned, and put-upon? Why should he go out and spend their money, consort with loose women, and break every vow of their marriage? Why should she be abused by her husband, pitied by everyone around her?

"Because I'm a dutiful wife," she said aloud to the empty room.

And then she laughed because of the absurdity of the statement -- after spending months alone in the company of a man not her husband, after traveling with him, posing as his wife, kissing him, such an assertion was ludicrous, if not downright untruthful. And yet there was no one but herself and Mr. Darcy who would -- or could -- ever know of her actions.

They certainly would never believe it if told. In fact, if not for the time machine sitting on the kitchen table, if not for her valise full of new clothing and the gown she had on now, she would be hard pressed to say it hadn't been all a very unrealistic and imaginative daydream. After all, she was here where it had started. She was the same as when she started, except that she now had memories of a past she hadn't known before. She knew a sense of companionship she hadn't known before.

But with that knowledge came a power she never knew she had. She wasn't trapped here. She could leave and go anywhere. She could go to her Aunt and Uncle Gardiner's -- but, no, they had just had a new baby. She could not intrude at such a time. And to show up, a runaway from her husband? No, she would not bring such troubles to their doorstep. The same was true with Jane: she would certainly be welcomed and shielded by her sister, but it was impossible to expect the same from her husband.

Should she use the time machine? Perhaps, she thought, but to where? It would certainly allow her to evade detection. Wickham could not find her if she were not even in the same time as he.

And yet, there was somewhere she wanted to go first. Spurred to action, Elizabeth stood and went down the stairs, to where the time machine still sat on the table. In her bag was the notebook, and she opened it and scanned through the entries, searching for a site in Derbyshire she might use. But the only one available was the study at Pemberley -- and though the house might be her eventual destination, it would be awkward to show up inside it without ever having knocked. No, she would simply have to get there the old-fashioned way.

She already had her valise packed. With a quick counting of her funds, she determined it impossible to hire a private coach; the mail it would have to be.

Wearing her oldest gown, hiding her hair in the oldest bonnet she had, she easily passed for a servant. The man at the posting inn gave her and her curious luggage a questioning look as she purchased a seat, but she wasn't dissuaded. She was on her way to Pemberley.

The coach was full for most of the way. At first, she shared the bench with an older woman, and across from a young clerk and a silent and surly man. The surly man disembarked in St. Albans, and was soon replaced by a foul-smelling farmer. The older woman, who professed herself a seamstress going to live with her daughter, left off in Kettering, and the farmer soon followed. From then on it was a parade of nameless faces. The travel was quick, the stops not long enough for her to eat even a morsel of food, and by the time they arrived in Sheffield nearly a full day later, Elizabeth was exhausted and starving. But she was nearly there.

After sleeping the night at the inn in Sheffield, Elizabeth changed into one of her better gowns and hired a carriage to take her the rest of the way. She arrived in Lambton by midday, and there she hired a room and, after a brief luncheon, another carriage to take her to Pemberley. She was going to take a tour.

It wasn't likely that she would see him while she was there, she learned. From all the chambermaid had told her at the Lambton Arms as she'd helped her with her hair, the man had become a veritable recluse, seen only by his tenants and his staff. His wife, on the other hand, was everywhere, and with everyone. There were all sorts of whispers, the maid had said, but she wasn't supposed to talk about those. Even so, Mr. Darcy had a reputation for being a fair-dealing man, and extraordinarily patient with his erring wife. He was considered a living saint by many.

Elizabeth couldn't help but hope that perhaps, if fate were so kind, she might see him. She had so many questions -- but no, she could not ask those of a virtual stranger. Yes, at one time he had offered her marriage, but she had not seen him since. And she had married a man that was no friend to him. She had no right to ask him questions.

But perhaps she might tender an apology, late as it seemed. She could begin her new life with a clean slate, a full pardon for everything she'd done, all the mistakes she'd made. She could begin again afresh.

They continued along the path to Pemberley, the ill-sprung carriage jolting over the rutted roads, and Elizabeth watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods, feeling suddenly uneasy with her decision to come here. When they at last turned into the park, her stomach was tied into knots.

The park was expansive, full of richly vegetated hills. The carriage entered it at one of its lowest points and drove the winding road to the estate for some time through a wood. It was beautiful, and Elizabeth couldn't help but pull down the window to be able to look out at the scenery for a better view.

But they had no sooner reached the crest of a hill, where the wood parted and Pemberley House could be seen on the opposite side of the valley, when the heavens opened and rain came down with fervor. She had barely taken in the sight of that magnificent house before she found it necessary to close up the window and was forced to watch as the scene became darker and the glass streaked with rain. It was a fitting introduction to the home she might have had, she thought.

They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door. She sent the hired footman with a vail to apply at the door, whether a lady might take a tour of the house, and he came back with an answer to the positive and an umbrella. She hurried beneath its shelter to the hall and, as she waited for the housekeeper, she gazed around the entry with a sense of amazement that she was here.

The housekeeper, a Mrs. Reynolds, came to meet her. She was a respectable-looking, elderly woman, and she welcomed her unexpected visitor with civility and no sign that her intrusion was unwelcome. With an aside to the footman to have the coachman and any other servants offered refreshments in the kitchen, she showed her guest first into the dining-parlor. Elizabeth produced an appropriately approving murmur to the housekeeper as she gazed around the large, well-proportioned room fashionably fitted up, before going to a window to look out over the wind-swept scene. The rain was still coming down in earnest, but couldn't hide the splendor of the view. Particularly as she had come recently from her tiny, cramped home in Somers Town, she felt the full effects of the difference. With a small sigh, understanding now a little more what it was she had given up, she turned back to follow the housekeeper as she continued the tour.

As they entered one sitting room on the approved circuit, this one seemingly less updated than others, Elizabeth was drawn to the mantelpiece, over which several small miniatures were suspended. She approached and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham. Unintentionally she let out a gasp, and the housekeeper, who had stood back in the doorway, came forward to see what it was. "Oh, no," Elizabeth said quickly. "It is nothing. I simply thought I recognized someone; that is all. Are these -- are these all miniatures of family?"

"Some," said Mrs. Reynolds. She pointed to a miniature of which Elizabeth quickly recognized the subject. "That, for instance, is my master -- and still very like him, though it was drawn nearly twenty years ago. In the gallery upstairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favorite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them and, as this is one of the few rooms the new mistress did not have redone, they have not been touched. My master would not allow it.''

And then, as if embarrassed by her revelation, Mrs. Reynolds quickly directed Elizabeth's attention to one of Mr. Darcy's sister, drawn when she was only eight years old.

"A very striking young girl," Elizabeth said, looking at the delicate features. "She must have grown into a very handsome young lady."

"Oh, yes -- the handsomest young lady that ever was seen," Mrs. Reynolds said with a smile. "And so accomplished -- my master was always proud of her."

"Is she here at the estate often?" Elizabeth asked.

A shadow crossed the housekeepers face, and she looked away. "She has spent most of the last few years at her aunt and uncle's, the earl's estate some miles from here. After my master's marriage, she found it easier to make way for the new Mrs. Darcy."

"I understand," Elizabeth said soothingly. "It would not be comfortable to be supplanted as mistress."

Mrs. Reynolds smiled gratefully. "Indeed, it would not. Shall I show you the library?"

They moved on, and as they did so, Elizabeth asked about Mr. and Mrs. Darcy. The housekeeper was reticent on the subject of the couple, though any question about her master was eagerly replied to. She spoke of his generous nature, of his ease and good temper, and of his leniency and just dealings with staff and tenants.

"He seems a wonderful man," Elizabeth said.

"He is," the housekeeper said as they climbed the staircase. "He is the best landlord and the best master that ever lived. His life, I think, has not been an easy one, and he has been dealt his share of misfortune, but he has come through them with a patience and determination of which the saints and heroes would be proud."

Elizabeth smiled at the encomium, but said nothing. The housekeeper continued in this vein, and they soon reached a spacious lobby above, where Elizabeth was shown into a very pretty sitting room, fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than the apartments below. "This," Mrs. Reynolds said, "was done up some years ago to give pleasure to Miss Darcy. She had taken a liking to the room, and my master had seen to it that it was redecorated for her. It was often her refuge during that summer, and then later after my master married..." she trailed off, her mind obviously far away. But after a few moments, she recollected herself and said crisply, "But it is rarely used now. Shall I show you the picture gallery or the principal bedrooms on the tour? The queen's bedroom is a marvelous sight."

Elizabeth chose the gallery and was shown to a room with many fine paintings, many of which were old family portraits. Such visual description of the Darcys' fine heritage could not fail to impress, but were of little more interest than that to someone as unconnected as she. Elizabeth walked on in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested her -- and she beheld a striking resemblance of Mr. Darcy, though far younger than her companion of late. He seemed a few years younger even than when they had met in Hertfordshire, and she felt a smile on her face as she looked up at the light and happy expression in his eyes. I would have loved you in an instant had I seen you then as I see you now, she thought, saddened suddenly by the way they had parted last.

"It was commissioned in his father's lifetime," Mrs. Reynolds said, and Elizabeth turned to find the old woman had approached her. She blushed to think she might have been overheard if she had spoken her thoughts aloud.

"It is a fine painting," she said softly. "Is it still much like him?"

The housekeeper thought for a moment before answering. "It is some years past, now, but I should say there is occasionally the glimmer of this younger man in him. As I said before, his life has not been easy. But sometimes--"

"Mrs. Reynolds!"

They both turned towards the doorway, where a tall, angry man was just entering. His greatcoat was dripping as he strode across the floor; his hair was dark with wet and plastered to his skin. Mrs. Reynolds stepped forwards out of the shadows, moving towards him. "Mr. Darcy, I--"

"Where is my wife?" he asked, spitting out the word. "I checked the stables as I came in, but she was not there. I will speak with her."

Mrs. Reynolds glanced in embarrassment at Elizabeth, but her employer did not seem to notice. "Mr. Darcy, there is--"

"I just learned from Daniels that she had taken the carriage to Chesterfield and stopped at a pawn shop. By God, if she's sold the family jewels to pay the debts for another of her cicisbeos, I swear I'll..."

"Mr. Darcy!"

"I know, Mrs. Reynolds," he said, interrupting her again. He sighed, rubbing a hand over his face. "I am truly sorry. I should not take out my foul humor on you. You are in no way to blame for my wife's actions, and I should remember my tongue. I hope your familiarity with my moods will help you forgive me." He smiled softly, his eyes beseeching her pardon.

Mrs. Reynolds, who by this point in his speech was completely red in embarrassment, gestured weakly in Elizabeth's direction. "Mr. Darcy, I'm giving a tour."

It was Mr. Darcy's turn to become flushed in mortification, but the color swiftly fled from his face as Elizabeth stepped out of the shadows. His indrawn breath was audible as he stared at her. "Elizabeth," he choked out.

She curtsied to him. "Mr. Darcy."

Mrs. Reynolds looked between them, confused, but said nothing. Mr. Darcy, however, had recovered his voice somewhat: "What are you doing here?"

Elizabeth paused and glanced at Mrs. Reynolds, but decided quickly that she had no choice but to speak before her, were she not to be thrown summarily from the house. She closed her eyes, took a fortifying breath, and said, "I have left my husband."

Mrs. Reynolds gasped, and Mr. Darcy's jaw fell open. He shook his head in disbelief. "Miss Bennet, I--"

"I am Mrs. Wickham," she said firmly.

He stared at her, the horror plain on his face, and a quick glance at Mrs. Reynolds revealed to Elizabeth a similar expression. "Wickham?" he asked faintly. "You married George Wickham?"

She smiled sadly. "Fool that I was, I did."

There was an awkward silence for a moment before Mrs. Reynolds spoke hurriedly, "Sir, I am entirely at fault. If I had known, I would never have--"

A curt gesture from Mr. Darcy and her words dried up. "Mrs. Reynolds, leave us," he said, not ungently. "Mrs-- ... the lady and I have things to discuss."

The older woman, after a brief look of indecision, curtsied and made her way to the door where, a moment's hesitation passed, she closed it securely. Neither Elizabeth nor Mr. Darcy spoke for a moment as they stared at each other. She was unsure where to begin. What was she to say? How could she even begin to apologize?

He looked very nearly the same as he had when they were in Hertfordshire together recently, as they posed as the Winterbottoms and later at Rosings. If anything, he seemed a bit older now, more tired -- but there he would have been three years older than he was at present. It was clearly not the age, then, but rather the life he was leading.

"How much would you like?" he asked, startling her out of her thoughts.

"How much?" she echoed, and then shook her head smiling. "I do not need money."

His brow furrowed. "Then what do you need? A place to live? A recommendation?"

"I do not need anything," she said.

"Then you-- ... Then what are you doing here?" he asked, clearly puzzled.

The moment for her confession now arrived, her courage failed her. She looked up at him, at his confused and pained expression, and the well-rehearsed words flew far from her mind. She bit her lip, nervously trying to regain her composure, and when her hand began to shake she turned and walked to the window, where she looked out over the lawn. The sky was yet dark, but the rain had begun to ease. She took a deep breath, and, seeing his reflection in the window having come closer, turned to say her piece. "I came here, first, Mr. Darcy, to see what I had given up when I ... when I refused you," she said, wringing her hands as she watched him carefully to gauge his reaction. He grimaced and looked away at this reminder. She softened her voice: "But I had also hoped I might have an opportunity to speak with you, and, as I had hoped, God was on my side. But, then, he usually is when one is seeking forgiveness."

"Forgiveness?" he asked, looking up at her in surprise. "For what?"

"For the way in which I refused you. I said some unjust and uncivil things, and I wish to apologize."

"You have nothing for which to apologize," he said with some feeling. "What did you say that I didn't deserve? Your accusations may have been ill-founded, formed on inaccurate information, but my own behavior to you at the time deserved your reproof -- and for it I am thankful."

"It did not change your future," she said softly, but he heard her words.

"No, not in any measurable way," he agreed, and she looked up in surprise. But it took only a moment's thought to realize he did not know the whole of to what she referred. He confirmed it as he continued: "But I have been set in my own ways for the majority of my life -- as a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. My parents, though they were good themselves, allowed and encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing, to think meanly of the rest of the world. I cared for none beyond my own circle -- until I met you, and you taught me a grave lesson about pride and gentlemanly behavior.

"I admit that it was some time before I gave your criticisms the consideration they deserved," he said. "I had reacted badly to the experience. I licked my wounds in private, and consoled myself in the bosom of the society I believed deserved my respect. It was some months before I was able to face what I had been hiding from -- and by that time I was engaged, I had lost sight of my closest friends, and my sister had distanced herself from me."

Elizabeth was silent. In truth, she had no idea what to say. Here he was, pouring out his heart and his troubles to her; it was improper; it was wholly inappropriate. Yet, when the silence stretched, she could not help but ask, "You are not happy?"

He laughed bitterly, running a hand through his damp hair, the curls standing out every which way. "No more than you are, I assume," he said, "as you are leaving your own marriage. It would be rather difficult for me to run away."

At that moment, he too seemed to realize all that he was confessing to this woman -- perhaps not a stranger, but as near as one to make no difference. The woman who rejected one's hand was not the most ideal of confidantes. He grimaced again. "I must apologize; I should not have imposed on you with my troubles. You seem to have caught me at a time when my emotions are in turmoil."

"What happened?" she asked.

He glanced at her sideways. "Do you truly wish to know? I would not sully your ears."

Elizabeth laughed, the sound a bit hollow. "What you share cannot be anything to what I have heard in the past ten years. Life with George Wickham is an educating experience. It is not for the faint of heart."

Mr. Darcy closed his eyes, his expression pained. "I am indescribably sorry that you had to marry the blackguard."

"Had to, Mr. Darcy?" she said. "I chose my fate."

He shook his head. "But you would not have, had I told you of his past."

"I know the truth, that you did not keep him from the living your father promised in the will, as he had told me," she said to his surprise. "I learned of it recently. You gave him three thousand pounds in its lieu."

"And did you know that the three thousand was beyond the thousand-pound legacy he received full out from my father's death?" he asked. She shook her head. "And that when he squandered the money, he petitioned me for the living some three years later? Or that, when I refused, he tried to seduce my sister for her dowry?"

Elizabeth gasped, her hand going to her mouth in horror. Mr. Darcy had refuted Wickham's tale long ago, when they were first beginning their mission, but he had not said a word beyond the living and the settlement. "Your sister?" she exclaimed, tears forming in your eyes. After only a moment, though, a memory occurred to her: "He was her seducer! He tried to marry her. You stopped him. It was why you came to me, you said. My God! Why did you never tell me the whole of it? It would have changed everything!"

His brow wrinkled in confusion. "When would I have told you, madam? Before I proposed? It is not something one generally spreads about."

She shook her head, her hand to her brow; she had been speaking out of time to this man. Gathering her thoughts again, she replied to his question: "No, but I would have understood. I would never have married him."

"But would it truly have changed anything for us? Would you have been disposed to see my proposal in a different light? I cannot help doubt it."

There was truth in that, and she was forced to admit it. "I would not have accepted your hand, if that is what you mean. I had more than Wickham's charges to lay at your door. There was the matter with my sister and Mr. Bingley, as well."

Here he looked conscious. "Do you still blame me for that?"

She looked at him squarely. "Yes, I do," she said. "You had no right at all to interfere in the matter. And can you tell me that your actions made them happy? I can certainly say not for my sister."

"I cannot say for Bingley," Darcy said, his voice distant, thoughtful. "We have not spoken in years, and the last time was a brief conversation we had when we ran into each other at a coffeehouse in London. I do not think I've returned to that coffeehouse since." He glanced at her with a wry expression. "And I cannot blame the quality of their cakes."

"Why?" she asked. "What happened between you?"

"I do not know, honestly," he said with a sigh. "We simply drifted apart. I think he might have blamed me, a little, for my advice back then. He was a changed man when he came back from Scarborough the summer after our sojourn in Hertfordshire. Quieter than usual, introspective, and with a bit of reserve that hadn't been there before. He was still Bingley, and yet not. I think he came with a party to Pemberley later in the summer, but that was it. There was too much awkwardness. I went to see him married a year later, sent them a nice wedding-gift, but, aside from a thank-you note, I do not believe I heard from him again until the coffee house."

"I am so sorry," she said.

He laughed, somewhat bitterly. "You should not be. You warned me, and I chose not to heed your advice. I could have spoken with Bingley, the next time I saw him. I could have persuaded him to return to Hertfordshire, to take a chance with your sister. I could have gone with him, to discover as best I could the truth for myself. But I did not. I was still smarting from your words. As you said: I also chose my fate."

Elizabeth smiled sadly. "Indeed, we all do. Do you think, if you had the chance, you would go back and change it?" When he looked at her in confusion, she elaborated: "If you had the opportunity, the means to go back in time and change things, would you?"

He thought for a while, and the silence in the room grew, though not awkwardly. At last, he said, "Yes and no. Would I change my proposal to you? Would I change the opportunity I had to see myself in a new light, to learn what it truly meant to love and respect someone? No. I would never change it, no matter the pain I endured, no matter the heartbreak. I learned what was perhaps the most valuable lesson of my life, though I was too hardheaded to realize it until it was too late to alter myself for the better.

"But I would have changed what happened afterward," he said, reaching out to take her hands in his. "I cannot help but feel it is my fault that you married George Wickham. If not for my stubbornness; if not for my unwillingness to bare my secrets, to explain the nature of my interactions with him, I believe you might not have married him. If I had told you, at least some of it, would you have acted differently?"

"Certainly," she said without hesitation. "I probably would have been somewhat wary of accepting only your word for it, but it would have at least given me pause. I would have at least had that seed of distrust planted. It also would have given me a better understanding of why Miss King left. I would like to think it would have kept me from falling further into his trap."

Darcy nodded thoughtfully. After a moment, he said, "I wonder if, at some level, he married you because of me."

Elizabeth startled and withdrew her hands; with trembling legs, she turned and walked across the room, stopping when she stood beneath the portrait of Mr. Darcy. "No, it could not possibly be..." she murmured, shaken. When she turned back, she saw Darcy standing where he had before, rooted to the spot. "I apologize," he said stiffly. "I did not mean to imply--"

"No," she said quickly, waving away the apology. "You did nothing wrong. I was simply reminded of something he said to me a few days ago before I left him. He knew -- perhaps not of the proposal, but that you loved me. He said as much, taunted me with it."

"But why would he not have come to me, then?" Darcy said. "I would be the one to torment. I would be the one with power. I cannot believe he would wait ten years to say anything, and then only to you. It's not in his nature." He paused a moment, then swore, apologizing when he realized his company. "Of course. He did. Wickham tried to come here to see me, just before I married Victoria. And once when we were in London, he made an appearance there as well. And there were his letters, which I always burned. I'd thought they were simply petitions for more money, or perhaps even threats against his knowledge of the failed elopement in Ramsgate. There must have been more involved, and I did not realize. I never imagined..."

"There was nothing you could have done, in any case," Elizabeth said, shaking her head. "I had made my bed."

They neither of them spoke, separated now by more than just the span of the room. He did not look at her, his head bowed, his eyes closed, and she hated that she had given him something more to regret.

But, then, he was going to change his life. In three years, if she remembered what he had said when he'd first come to her in Somers Town, he would go back in time and change his past. But he wasn't going to be able to finish what he started if she didn't return to him. And God only knew if she could return -- or if she had ruined things utterly with her impetuous dash through time. She would simply have to try.

"Mr. Darcy, I have to go," she said. He looked up at her, and the pain in his eyes, the naked expression of regret and guilt that he bore, made her close the distance between them. She touched her hand to his cheek, and he covered it with his own hand, the simple bond of honest forgiveness making their touch so important. "I am sorry for burdening you with my troubles. I would wish that I had never come here, but I cannot regret learning what I have. It has changed everything for me, and you may not realize it now, but it will change everything for you."

"Where will you go?" he asked. "I feel responsible for you; I cannot let you leave without knowing you will be happy and safe."

She laughed. "I will be very happy. And I swear that I will be safe. I have someone who will protect me." She reached up, standing on the tips of her toes, and kissed him on his other cheek. "I will see you again in three years," she said softly, and then with a smile solely for him, went to the door.

Outside the gallery, Elizabeth found Mrs. Reynolds waiting, sitting on a small bench at a discreet distance. She turned to look back through the doorway at Mr. Darcy, who was still standing where she'd left him, his hands at his side, his solemn gaze watching her. She smiled again, and then turned back to Mrs. Reynolds. "I must return to the inn, Mrs. Reynolds," she said, her voice brimming with hope and joy despite her efforts at composure. "Would you show me to my carriage?"

The older woman looked from her to Mr. Darcy, then nodded and led the way back to the entrance. When they reached the carriage, Elizabeth turned to her to thank her for the tour, but she found herself being addressed: "I know it is not my place, Mrs. Wickham, but I would like to ask you something, if I may."

Elizabeth lifted a brow in query. "I will do my best to answer."

Mrs. Reynolds closed her eyes, took a deep breath, then met Elizabeth's curious gaze. "Did you come seeking money from my master?"

The question startled Elizabeth for its boldness, and she laughed despite herself. The older woman's expression grew even graver, and Elizabeth quickly did her best to dispel her concern. "No, Mrs. Reynolds. I did not. If anything, I came to give Mr. Darcy something, not take it."

"Give him?" Mrs. Reynolds echoed. "What did you give him?"

The corner of Elizabeth's mouth quirked upwards as she glanced up at the house. In a window above her, a figure was visible, his hand holding the curtain aside, his gaze on them. "Hope, Mrs. Reynolds," she said. "I believe I gave him hope."

April 1812

"... and so I went back to the inn, where I used the time machine to come back here," she was saying as they sat together at the table in the cottage. "I could not remember exactly when I had left, so I set the coordinates to as close to when I remembered the proposal being, as I knew for certain you would have been involved, that you would still be here. But you were not in the cottage when I arrived. So I went in search of you and found you where I somehow knew you would be."

But Darcy barely heard this conclusion to her tale. He was too wrapped up in the tumult of emotions he had undergone in the past twenty minutes, hearing her discuss the days she had spent since she'd left him. He still couldn't recall having met her at Pemberley -- but then he wouldn't have, he realized, as he hadn't been back to his time since before they'd begun changing things in the past. Certainly, if he went forward in time now, the memory would no doubt come to him. But it wasn't this inability to remember their meeting that most disturbed him.

"Why did you go back to him?" he asked.

"Who? You mean my husband?" When he nodded, she sighed. "Where else would I have gone? I simply went home -- back to where I started."

"I didn't ... I didn't drive you back to him, then?"

"Oh! No!" she cried, her hand reaching across the table to grasp his. "No, you did nothing of the sort. It was simply where I had to go. I had to begin again somewhere. And if I hadn't then gone to Pemberley, I most likely would have sought out my sister Jane or perhaps my aunt and uncle sometime in the past or the future, tried to explain it to them. I'm not entirely certain, really, but I would not have stayed with him."

"I am so sorry, Elizabeth," he said, clasping her hand tightly. "I did not mean what I said. I was blind; I was a fool."

Her eyes filled with tears, and she dashed away one that made its way onto her cheek. "No more than I was," she said. "We both said some foolish things. We should have talked calmly; we should have discussed this further. We could have found a way to help me learn the truth about Wickham, to undo what was done to separate my sister and Mr. Bingley. If we had discussed this, we might have been able to fix it."

"But we did not talk," he said gently. "And I blame myself for it."

"Then we are both sorry," she said with a watery smile.

He smiled back. "I believe we are."

They fell silent, holding each other's hand. Darcy felt her tremble, and he offered her his handkerchief when she reached up to wipe away another tear.

"I was right, though," he said after some time. "I do not wish to go back and change what happened. As painful as it is, I think I needed your rejection. I needed to discover what it truly means to love you."

"Do we abandon our efforts, then?" she asked.

"By no means," he said. "I still need to tell you the truth about Wickham. I need to make right my separation of Bingley and your sister. But I don't know where to start."

She thought for a moment. "Would you have been willing to speak with me of it?"

Darcy shook his head immediately. "I could never do so," he said. "I am not one for words."

"Nor would I probably let you finish your explanation, even if you managed it," she said with a sigh. "I am not precisely patient when it comes to explanations I feel are suspect. I would interrupt you at every turn."

"Which would no doubt only tie my tongue in knots even further. Instead of spoken words, what do you say to a letter?"

She looked skeptical at this. "And how would you deliver it? I could not receive a letter from a man not related to me. I would be ruined."

"But if I gave it to you privately, out of sight of anyone? No one would know of our correspondence."

She allowed that it might serve, but there were still obstacles. "Foremost, how do we convince you to write a letter to me? Even beyond overcoming the impropriety, it is not as if we might simply walk up to your younger self and ask him if he would consider writing me a letter."

Darcy laughed. "That would be rather awkward. But perhaps if we started it off, then left it for myself somewhere? I might be inspired."

Elizabeth looked skeptical at this, but agreed to the proposition. Darcy fetched the traveling desk set from his bag and took out a sheet of paper. He then spent a few moments sharpening his quill and then dipped it in the inkpot. "I am ready," he said, looking up at Elizabeth. "How do I start it?"

It was her turn to laugh. "You are the one who came up with this thought," she said. "I should have thought you would have an idea of how to start it."

He grimaced. "I haven't precisely been flush with success at knowing what you would like to hear lately," he said. "I would rather not risk setting off another argument, even by letter."

She smiled, acknowledging his point. "Very well, then," she said slowly. "I think that perhaps you ought to first forewarn me that I am not about to read another proposal of marriage."

He sighed. "It is a justified fear, madam, but I cannot believe that you would think that, after being the provider of the soundest tongue-lashing man has ever been given."

Her eyes twinkled. "Ah, yes, but you have never been proposed to by Mr. Collins. I assure you, it is not an unreasonable expectation."

"I truly do not wish to know what that meant," he said, and she laughed. He smiled at her laughter, and then turned back to the task at hand. After a bit of thought, he began to write. When he was finished, he set aside the quill and pushed the letter gently across the table to her. "What do you think?"

She read it carefully:

"Be not alarmed, Madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments, or renewal of those offers, which last night you rejected. I write without any intention of paining you by dwelling on idle wishes: the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion would have been spared had not my character required it to be written and read. I beg of you, therefore, to pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention."

"That is good," she said. "But I am unsure whether I would read it. You justify yourself, why you are writing it, but why should I read it? You must appeal to my better nature; you must appeal to my own pride, my unwillingness to be considered deficient in understanding and sense of fairness."

The corner of his lip curved upwards. "To your sense of justice, then? How about, perhaps," he said, writing as he spoke, "'I beg of you, therefore, to pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention ... your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice.'"

Elizabeth approved. And within a reasonable amount of time, they had come up with the following paragraph, as well:

"Two offences of a very different nature you laid to my charge last night. The first mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister; and the other, that I had ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. But from the severity of that blame, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in future secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read."

"Now the question is," Darcy said, sanding the paper, "how do we get this to me? And then, how do we convince me to finish it and give it to you?"

"I think," Elizabeth said, taking the paper from him and glancing over it again, "that I can be of assistance."

Fitzwilliam Darcy lay stretched out on his back, fully clothed but for his boots and coat, on his bed at Rosings, staring up at the curtains. He had been there for perhaps a few hours, at most, but millions of thoughts had in the meantime paraded themselves through his head, torturing him. All he could think about -- all there was to think about -- was his failed proposal to Miss Elizabeth Bennet.

How dare she! he railed for perhaps the thousandth time. How dare she criticize me! How dare she lay such charges against me!

And yet in the next moment, as in so many of the cycles before, he was moved to the most profound sorrow at the emptiness and barrenness that comes from baring one's soul and having one's heart plucked out and stomped on the ground. It was all he could do not to give in to the weakness of tears, but the self-pity was plenteous enough without them.

There was nothing he could do. She was decided against him. But at least he would be gone soon. Here was a blessing of her low connections: he need only avoid her for the day, and they would never cross paths again. He would never be reminded of her or of the unjust accusations she had made against him.

And they were unjust -- surely she knew what her family was like, how unequal they were as a match. How could he not have advised Bingley against them? And Wickham! How dare she speak to him of that worm?

A sound in the dressing room startled him out of his thoughts, and he sat up, suddenly aware of the darkness in the room. He had not noticed when night had fallen. He remembered his valet coming in, but he'd sent him away with only a word, locking the doors in anger behind him. He hadn't been sensible of the time after that. With a sigh, he got up and went to the fireplace -- a fire had been laid, but not lit. He started the fire and then lit one of the candles from the mantle. As he was straightening, something caught his eye -- movement across the room -- and he turned abruptly, lifting the candle high.

He was dreaming. There was no other possible explanation for her presence. He had not heard the door open, but there she was, standing in the doorway to his dressing room. His breath caught in his throat.

"Elizabeth..." he breathed.

Why had she come here? Was she regretting her answer to his proposal? But, no -- no matter what her situation, no unmarried gentlewoman would enter a man's room, and certainly not at night.

"You must tell me the truth," she said, her voice firm.

"The truth?" he echoed stupidly, still struggling to process the fact that she was there, much less that she had spoken.

She held out something -- a piece of paper, he thought, stepping forward with the candle. When he came closer, she did not retreat. She stood firmly, waiting for his approach. But when he reached out, not to take the paper but perhaps to touch her hair, to assure himself that she was real, she stepped backwards and held out the paper again. He took it from her hand and held it up to the candlelight.

"You must tell me the truth," she said again, and he looked up at her.

"Why should I?" he asked. "Why should I explain myself to you?"

She didn't answer at first, and he was arrested by the expression in her eyes. It was a mixture of sadness and empathy, as if she knew what he was feeling right now -- as if she could possibly...

"If I have to answer that, you are not the man I thought you were," she said softly. "And I believe you can become something far greater. Just tell me the truth."

And with that, she retreated until all he could see of her in the darkness was the edge of her skirt, and then that, too, was gone. He looked down again at the paper in his hands, and then at the empty doorway, and with a confused shake of the head he followed her -- but when he entered the dressing room there was no one there. He went to the servant's door, but it was locked. He shook his head again, holding the candle high to gaze around the room. Nothing stirred.

If not for the paper in his hands, he would have believed it to be all a dream. The product of his imaginations. He certainly did not believe in ghosts. And yet, what other explanation was there?

Rubbing a hand over his face and through his unruly hair, he went back into his room and then beyond to the small sitting-room. There, he set down the candle and sat down at the desk and opened the letter again. By the time he had read the few words there written -- in his own hand, no less -- he had made a decision. He picked up his quill, checked the nib, and then took out his inkpot. He had to tell her the truth.

He had been walking the grove for some time now. The elder Elizabeth and Darcy, on the other hand, remained where they were, hidden from view at the edge of the wood on a slight rise not too far off, watching as the younger Darcy paced back and forth, seeking her. He had chosen his hunting grounds well; if she were to come from the parsonage on a walk, she would undoubtedly come this way. The only question was when.

They talked in soft voices as they sat. There were no apologies anymore; they had said all that needed to be said on that subject, and forgiveness was granted. Instead, they spoke of their childhoods, their memories, their families. They shared their similar experiences: of reading books, of falling out of trees, of going to their first ball. They learned more about each other in that hour or more as the sun rose than they had in all the weeks they had been together. And they had so little time to be able to appreciate it.

"What will it be like to disappear, do you think?" Elizabeth asked now as they watched the younger Darcy pause at a gate, his neck stretching as he sought out something in the distance. He must not have found what he was looking for; he returned to his pacing.

"I do not know," Darcy said honestly. "It does not appear to be painful. I watched old Wickham fade away when we were on the quay at Ramsgate, and he never indicated pain by word or look. He merely ... disintegrated from my view. He simply did not exist anymore."

Elizabeth seemed thoughtful. "I would say I would miss this, if I thought I would miss it." She glanced sideways at him. "But if I don't exist, I suppose I won't."

He smiled, the expression strained by the bitter knowledge that she was right. "I would say I would miss this, too," he said. "I can only hope my younger self will love you as much as I do."

"I hope my younger self can do the same," she replied softly.

They sat together quietly for a time, continuing to watch the scene below. He was startled by the sudden feel of her touch when it came, of her hand slipping into his, but he held to it tightly as they watched another figure appear from the direction of the parsonage. She came closer and became more visible in the dusky half-light of morning, but he didn't have to ask if it was her -- they both knew it was Elizabeth.

The younger Darcy, too, now caught sight of her and approached the gate as she approached from the other side. They met in a stilted fashion -- at one point, it looked as though she would have turned back, but the sound of his voice, so loud in the quiet, appeared to check her. He handed over the letter, its beginning so familiar to them, so similar to the one they had begun. She accepted it, and he turned and walked away.

Darcy heard a sniffle beside him and wordlessly he offered his handkerchief. He ignored the feeling of wetness on his own cheeks. He wouldn't be around much longer to bother feeling embarrassed.

Down below, the younger Elizabeth hadn't moved from her place by the gate, not until Darcy turned a corner by the stile. She then moved, somewhat jerkily, towards a rock a few feet away, and sat down. The letter was opened. She read it for some time, her posture changing as she continued, occasionally her lips moving as if she uttered something in response to what she read. At one point, she closed the letter and stood and paced to the gate and back, her movements delineating her anger without words.

Through it all, he held tightly to Elizabeth's hand, not saying anything. They both knew what was in the letter -- they had discussed it when they first arrived. There was no need for comment.

At last, the younger Elizabeth sat down again on the rock and returned to the letter. This time, the reaction was different. At one point she gasped, at another, she pulled out a handkerchief and wiped away what must have been tears.

"I love you," Elizabeth whispered, and he looked over at her. She was looking at him, but her eyes seemed muted in color; her whole appearance seemed muted in color, and growing less visible by the second.

But he was still here. He panicked, grasping at her hand, but he couldn't feel her anymore. "Elizabeth!" he gasped. "Please don't leave me."

She smiled a faded smile, the movement like a change in mist, the ghostly twinkle barely perceptible in her eye, and held up the back of her hand towards him, wiggling her fingers. "Come find me, Fitzwilliam."

He reached out to take hold of her, as if to somehow keep her here by force, but he was too late. She was gone. His hands met air, and then his fist met the ground.

It wasn't supposed to work this way. He didn't know how it was supposed to work, but it couldn't be like this. She wasn't meant to leave him again. What was he supposed to do? Where was he supposed to go?

But then he realized what she had meant when she had held up her hand. Her ring was gone. She was unmarried. And he knew how to find her.