* * *
Once we leavethis great estate, I will write to Mr. Hamilton and express more affection than I feel. Ours might not be a true love match, but I will make our union a happy one.“He is a good man,” she said to a small woodland creature scrambling up a tree. “He is respectable and kind to me. He is…just…what…a young man ought to be.” She had difficulty professing the last words as the vision of a tall man with brown eyes and errant curl falling across his brow stole through her thoughts. No amount of blinking or shaking her head could dislodge the image of Mr. Darcy from her mind—opening her eyes to find him leaning over her at Ashby Park, his hair disheveled, his nightshirt unbuttoned exposing his neck and collarbones.
She began to breathe a little faster, due in no part to her long walk, and excused her final thought of his dimpled smile in the carriage.Oh, Georgiana! How your words have tortured me these last weeks at night, knowing I will never find equal comfort or safety in anyone’s arms… save William’s.
She stopped in the middle of the path in the conifer woods and began to berate herself. “Elizabeth Anne Bennet, that is enough! You will make James a good wife, and he will make you a good husband. Many marriages begin with less and succeed.”
She continued to walk, kicking a pebble, when she came out of the shelter of the woods and into a clearing. “Oh!” She was stunned by the blanket of snow before her. Realizing her error in having roamed so far and for so long, her heart raced in panic.They will not know where to look for me! I do not even know where to look for me!The wind had picked up and an icy chill shot through her as she looked down at her pelisse and gloves.I must move forward.I must find shelter. Somewhere. Maybe through the meadow. Behind that grove of trees.
A distance which would should have taken her a few minutes stretched out as she traversed the exposed field. Her vision was obscured by snow and wind, and her pelisse became heavy with wet snow. At the edge of the trees, she could spy a rustic structure. Her heart leapt at the sight of what must be a hunting lodge, and she increased her pace. She was grateful the door gave way and she quickly closed the wind and snow behind her.
The room was musty from disuse but still well kept. Finding a stack of wood by the hearth, she smiled at the thought of making a fire for the first time. She found a row of simple rooms that must be the servants’ quarters, walked back into the small hallway and made her way down to handsomely appointed bedrooms with hunting scenes adorning the walls.I must find dry clothes. I am certain this is a man’s domain but am hopeful for any forgotten clothing to keep me warm.The two smaller ones were still larger than her own room at Longbourn but the master’s suite had a large bed. She pulled back the holland covers of the armoire and opening the drawers, she found a man’s night shirt, a fine lawn shirt, breeches and a tartan scarf along with a worn book of poetry. “Wordsworth,” she said aloud. “My old friend.”
She set the book atop the dresser, hastily removed her clothing and let everything puddle in a pile next to her wet half-boots. The blush on her cheeks warmed her as no fire could at the thought of the man who invaded her dreams. She pulled his own night shirt over her head, donned a pair of huge woolen socks, and attempted to ignore his lingering scent which clung to the fabric.
The length of the garment dragged behind her, attesting to the height of its owner, while she made her way back into the main room. Kneeling down, she grabbed the wood and put it on the hearth as she had seen the maids do in the early mornings. She found the tinderbox, and after several failed attempts, set about warming what would be her home for at least the night.
* * *
Fitzwilliam Darcy waswet and cold. He had left Donnelly Hall before the snow fell, believing he could outrun the storm. He realized now he was sorely mistaken. With the collar of his great coat pulled high around his ears, and his hat pressed low across his brow, even without the storm howling around him, his visibility was limited. Propitiously, he knew the grounds of his estate as he knew each room in his home.I am still at least an hour from the house. I should not have left Donnelly!He stopped his horse amongst the cover of trees and patted his withers. “Do not worry, old boy.” Remembering the old hunting lodge, he turned the stallion down another trail in the woods and dug his heels into Ulysses’ flanks.
* * *
Georgiana was right. Mrs. Reynolds knew exactly what to do. She had immediately summoned the butler who summoned the game keeper who gathered the men. They combed the grounds as best they could in the raging storm until they finally had to give up. Mrs. Reynolds had attempted to send a rider to Donnelly Hall to alert the master but to no avail. He returned saying he could not see the road ahead of him once he left the main gates of the estate.
The two young girls held each other in fear on the couch watching the darkness descend rapidly outside. Georgiana whispered words of comfort, just as Kitty had done for her the night she almost eloped with George Wickham.
They took a tray in the music room but lacked any appetite. About half past, they heard a commotion in the hall. Running to the great hall, they stopped at the sight.
“Where is my nephew?”
* * *
The fire had been roaringfor nearly an hour and Elizabeth had completely thawed out. Her only concern now was for Kitty and Georgiana knowing they would fear for her safety and would have certainly sent out a search party.Pity there is no way to get word that I am safe and warm.So warm that Elizabeth had unwrapped herself from the blanket on the couch, kicked off the woolen socks, wiggled her toes, and stretched her legs, luxuriating in the warmth of the fire. Earlier she had found candles, a tin with some stale biscuits, had unpinned her hair, and was curled up reading Wordsworth when she drifted off to sleep. Not knowing how long she had slept, she woke to hear the door rattling. Grabbing a blanket, she threw it around her shoulders and dashed to the door, expecting someone from the house had come to her rescue.
His cousin Richardhad told him once that when one travels through the desert, the mind returns again and again to water, to satiate the thirst welling up uncontrollably inside. Fitzwilliam Darcy, nearly frozen, stood there at the door, with the snow blowing into the room, drinking in his fill.I must be dreaming.I must have succumbed to the elements, fallen off my horse in the woods, and am dreaming.But the warmth of the room, contrasting with the cold behind him, testified this was no dream.
“Miss Bennet? Pray do not be alarmed,” he said, while continuing to stare at her, her ankles exposed.
“Mr. Darcy! Quickly, come inside before you catch your death of cold.”
Standing there in her night gown—my night shirt—he realized, swallowing a ragged breath, she closed the door behind him, shutting out the outside world and the reality of their lives.
Regaining his composure, he shook his head. “Miss Bennet. What are you doing here? How did you come to be in my grandfather’s hunting lodge?”
She smiled anxiously. “No, sir. There is time to tell that tale, as I fear this storm will rage all night long. Come,” she said, grabbing a candle from the table and leading his stiff limbs toward his room. “You must go and change. You are wet through. I have a fire here and will make you a cup of tea.”
“I fear I will need something stronger than tea,” he said in a low voice, following her down the dark hallway as if this was her home and he was her guest.
She stopped outside his room, moved her free hand up to his shoulders, and began to remove his soaking outerwear. “Let me take your coat to dry it by the fire. We must have you out of these clothes and warm, Mr. Darcy,” she said, all the while pulling his sleeves down his arms until his great coat was off.
Heaven help me! I cannot stand here like a eunuch while she is undressing me only wearing my nightshirt! Give me strength!
As if reading his thoughts, Elizabeth stopped when her warm hand rested upon his chest, her eyes growing large. No doubt feeling his heart pounding through his clothes, she looked down at her hand and up at him before pulling it away as if on fire.
“Mr. Darcy, forgive me. I was only… I was…not attending.”
“Miss Bennet,” he replied, attempting to control his strained voice as the tension enveloped them. His heart raced as his eyes searched her face for…he knew not what. “I know you meant…”
