Page 145 of The Difference of a Darcy
The resolve settled in his chest, warm and sure.
He would begin with an apology.
After that, he would do the work that proved a man could be trusted. He would return to Hertfordshire with Bingley at once. He would set his friend again upon the road to Netherfield, and he would contrive as many walks and dinners and calls as Jane Bennet’s comfort allowed—quietly, honorably, with no pressure and no interference from those who did not wish it.
He would seek out Mr. Bennet with humility and hear his mind. He would put himself where Elizabeth might see him at his best and not at his proudest. He would earn, if not her love, then at least her good opinion.
And if she did not remember a single moment of the life they had shared—if it had all been phantasm—then he would build another life in its place, brick by brick, day by day, as long as breath remained to him.
His chest ached, but the ache felt clean now, like air drawn too deep on a cold morning. He looked up at the pale sky.
He smiled faintly, the cold wind stinging his face.
Dream or not,he thought,I will make it true.
He turned from the pond—and froze.
There, just beyond the line of birches, stood Elizabeth.
∞∞∞
Elizabeth woke suddenly, her heart pounding, her body shivering.
Darcy.
She rolled over to borrow his warmth, but the space beside her was cold. Reaching out, she half-expected to find the solid warmth of Darcy’s arm and the steady rise and fall of his chest—but her hand only met the smooth coverlet.
Smooth?
Her eyes flew open.
The room was not the one she had fallen asleep in. Gone were the deep oak beams of the Pemberley servants’ quarters, the rough blankets on a lump mattress, and the folded garments Darcy had left at the foot of the bed. Even the air was different—cool and close, heavy with the smell of lye soap and fresh plaster.
Elizabeth sat up in confusion, staring about her. The narrow bed, the single chair in front of the washstand, and the closet with the shelves—all of it was familiar.
She was in the Hunsford parsonage.
Her breath caught painfully in her throat. “No,” she whispered aloud. “No, this cannot be.”
Looking around again, she hoped for some sign that might explain the impossibility. Had she been dreaming? Was she ill?
A sudden thought struck her.
Am I… am I Mrs. Collins?
The very idea made her shudder.
She drew a shaking breath and pressed a hand to her forehead, then stood and went to the corner where a small trunk stood open. Inside lay her gowns—heroldgowns, the same ones she had brought to Kent from Longbourn. There were no newer gowns that would have indicated a trousseau. And there were certainly no caps or lace collars, which would have been a sure sign that she had married.
Turning back to the bed, she inspected it carefully. There was no second pillow, no man’s coat, no books or papers that might belong to Mr. Collins. The smallness of the room, thefaint scent of lavender and starch—everything spoke of a guest chamber.
A guest, then. Not a wife.
Relief flooded through her so suddenly that she nearly laughed aloud. “Thank Heaven,” she murmured, collapsing back against the bed for a moment, her pulse still unsteady.
But her relief gave way almost at once to bewilderment. If she was not married—if she was stillMiss Elizabeth—then what had happened to the life she and Darcy had built together? The memory of it was still so vivid. Lying next to Darcy at night, traveling with him to Pemberley, working as a maid.
Had it all been a dream?
