The taproom was warm and noisy, filled with travelers seeking refuge from the storm. Darcy stood just inside the doorway, water streaming from his greatcoat as his eyes swept the space. Nothing remarkable—wooden tables, worn benches, the smell of ale and damp wool—yet his pulse quickened with recognition. He had stood in this exact spot before, surveying this same room with different eyes.
“May I help you, sir?” The harried-looking innkeeper approached, his expression shifting from harassed to deferential as he noted Darcy’s fine clothing and commanding presence.
“I require lodging for myself and my companion,” Darcy replied, stripping off his sodden gloves. “Your best chamber, if available.”
The innkeeper bobbed his head. “Certainly, sir. The Blue Room is vacant—largest we have, with a proper fireplace and?—”
“No.” The word emerged more sharply than Darcy intended. He moderated his tone. “I prefer the room at the end of the upper corridor. The one with the eastern window.”
The innkeeper’s face registered surprise, then wary calculation. “That room, sir? It’s not our finest accommodation. Perhaps the gentleman would prefer?—”
“That room specifically,” Darcy insisted, meeting the man’s gaze with unwavering intensity. “I have stayed there before.”
“Have you indeed?” The innkeeper’s expression remained carefully neutral, though something shifted behind his eyes—recognition, perhaps, or unease. “When might that have been, sir?”
“December 1811,” Darcy replied. “The night of a storm similar to this one.”
The innkeeper’s face paled. “I’m afraid I don’t?—”
“You do,” Darcy cut him off. “And we will discuss the matter at length. For now, the room, if you please.”
Within the hour, Darcy stood alone in the chamber that had altered the course of his life. Graham had gone to interview the stable hands, seeking information about Wickham’s connections to local ruffians. The innkeeper’s wife had brought up a tray with a light supper, her curious glances suggesting she, too, remembered something of significance.
The room itself was unremarkable—a narrow bed, a washstand, a small table beneath the window, a worn rug covering rough floorboards. Yet standing within its confines sent waves of sensation washing over Darcy’s skin. His fingertips tingled with the ghostly memory of touching something—someone—precious.
Rain lashed against the window, just as it had that night. Darcy moved toward it, drawn by some instinct beyond conscious thought. He rested his palm against the cold glass, feeling the vibration of raindrops striking the other side. Beyond the glass lay darkness, just as it had when he stood here with Elizabeth, both of them trapped by circumstance and weather.
Elizabeth.
Her name whispered through his mind, and with it came a flash of memory so vivid it stole his breath—Elizabeth standing in this very spot, her slender figure silhouetted against the storm-dark window, her shoulders hunched with the weight of her family’s betrayal.
Darcy closed his eyes, willing the memory to continue, to unfold its secrets. Instead, it slipped away like water through cupped fingers, leaving only the ache of absence behind.
A sharp knock interrupted his thoughts.
“Enter,” he called, turning from the window.
The innkeeper appeared, carrying a decanter of brandy and two glasses on a small tray. His manner was respectful but guarded.
“I thought you might appreciate something to warm you afteryour journey, Mr. Darcy,” he said, setting the tray on the small table. “The storm shows no signs of abating.”
“Much like the last time I was here,” Darcy observed, watching the man’s reaction closely.
The innkeeper’s hands stilled momentarily before he straightened, meeting Darcy’s gaze. “As you say, sir.”
“You remember me.”
It was not a question, but the innkeeper nodded cautiously nonetheless. “I do, sir. Though you look different now.”
“In what way?”
The innkeeper considered his words carefully. “More solemn, perhaps. That night, despite the circumstances, there was a certain anticipation about you.”
Anticipation—yes, that would have described his state perfectly. Anticipation of a life with Elizabeth, of bringing her to Pemberley, of building something true and lasting from the unlikely beginnings of a stormy night.
“Tell me what happened,” Darcy commanded softly. “Everything you recall about that night and the following morning.”
The innkeeper glanced toward the door, as if ensuring they were truly alone. “Sir, I make it a policy not to discuss my guests’ private affairs?—”
