Page 146 of The Difference of a Darcy
The thought struck her like a blow. Two months—could a dream truly span two months? She could still recall the details with painful clarity: the cold air of the Derbyshire nights, the crunch of frost beneath her boots, the way Darcy’s voice deepened when he said her name.
“No dream could feel so real,” she whispered.
Yet here she was, in the same bed, the same room, as if none of it had ever been.
She rose and dressed quickly, her fingers clumsy on the buttons. She needed proof—some hint that she had not imagined it all. The house was quiet save for the faint clatter of pans below. The only light came from the kitchen, spilling into the hallway.
Elizabeth descended the narrow stairs, her mind spinning.
When she stepped into the kitchen, the familiar warmth and bustle met her—the glow of the hearth, the smell of baking bread. The cook looked up from her work, her broad face creasing into a smile.
“Happy Christmas, Miss Bennet.”
Elizabeth stopped short. “Happy—Christmas?”
“Aye, miss. The snow’s let up, but it is a bitter cold morning.”
Elizabeth’s breath came out in a shaky laugh. “Christmas.”
So it was true. She was back to the very morning after that awful proposal—the one that had driven Darcy into despair.
The thought made her stomach twist.If this is Christmas morning again…
She pressed a hand to her lips.
He will be there. He will go to the grove. He will make the wish.
If it had all been real—if he remembered her—then he would surely already be there now, assuming she went there as well.
And if not…
She did not let herself finish the thought.
“Thank you,” she murmured distractedly to the cook, who looked at her in mild confusion as Elizabeth turned and rushed back up the stairs. Within minutes she had pulled on her boots, threw her pelisse about her shoulders, and tied her bonnet with trembling fingers.
The cold struck her like a wall as she stepped outside. The fields glittered with frost, the air sharp and thin. Her breath came in clouds as she hurried along the familiar path through the grove.
Her thoughts tumbled over one another.If it was a dream, how do I speak to him? What do I say? How can I even tell if he remembers?
The questions echoed in her mind as she climbed the small rise that overlooked the stream.
Then she stopped.
Darcy stood at the water’s edge. His greatcoat was buttoned to his throat, his hair ruffled by the wind, his head bowed as though in prayer. The same as before.
Her breath caught.
She could not move. She watched him—his stillness, his quiet intensity—as though afraid any sound would shatter the fragile moment.
He looked down into the icy water, and for an instant she thought she saw him mouth the words—I wish I had never been born.
“Fitzwilliam,” she whispered.
He turned.
Their eyes met.
Both froze.
